Rules of Engagement
by Bella Lumina
Summary: A mission to London changes Sydney's life drastically.
1. Chapter One

Title: Rules of Engagement (1/?)  
Author: Bella  
E-mail: bella_lumina@yahoo.com  
Site: http://www.fragmentary-blue.com/bella/  
Rating: PG-13  
Spoilers: Up to and including "The Box, Part Two."   
Category: Sydney/Vaughn   
Disclaimer: The characters (except Philip Holmes) aren't mine.   
Notes: Thank you to Cassandra and to Abs for the fabulous beta-readings. 

***

"You're going to London, I hear," Vaughn said calmly, turning from the stack of papers he was leafing through. "Nothing like London in June."

I smirked. "Someone's in a good mood," I commented, hoisting myself onto the countertop in the blood mobile. "You aren't usually this perky."

"I'm perky?" he asked, his face twisting up in disbelief. "I don't think so."

"You're definitely happy about something," I challenged, watching him try not to smile.

He failed, and a huge, brilliant grin spread across his face. "I didn't say I wasn't happy."

"Care to share?" I asked, pulling my legs up and resting my chin on my knees. "You look like Will after he's landed an important story. The proverbial cat who ate the canary."

He shoved his hands in his pockets and leaned against the opposite counter. "There's good news. Remember that file tap we had on the SD-6 system?"

I definitely did; the tap on Marshall's computer had nearly gotten me killed a few months before. "Your brilliant idea when we picked up Schiller?"

He rolled his eyes at me and folded his arms over his chest. "Yes, my brilliant idea. Some of the tech guys were going through the stuff we got yesterday, and they noticed something we had missed before. We ended up intercepting the SD-6 monthly payroll."

"You're kidding," I answered, my eyes growing wide. I let my legs dangle over the side of the counter. "How the heck did you manage that?"

"It was sheer, pure luck," he admitted, shrugging. "But if we keep having this kind of good luck, you may be back in the private sector sooner than we'd hoped."

It was my turn to smile brightly, slowly. "I can't remember what it was like to be just a person who could walk down the street, who didn't have to worry about who was lurking behind me or bugging my phone. Can you?"

He shrugged again, pushing off the counter and pacing to the other end of tiny room. "I remember, when I was little, that my mom would never let me answer the telephone. I thought it was because my English wasn't good enough…my mom is French, and my dad was always at work, so she and I spoke French all the time at home. It never occurred to me then that it was because she was afraid of who was going to be on the other end of the line."

I swallowed hard. "Vaughn…"

He cleared his throat and changed the subject quickly. He did that every time he told me anything about his childhood or his personal life. It was as if he was almost afraid to tell me very much about himself. It made me angry; he knew everything about me, and I knew barely anything about him. "We want photographs of the drawing." He rummaged around in his files and extracted a small box. "This is the same kind of camera we gave you for Argentina." He suddenly sneezed loudly.

"Bless you." I took it from him and opened it, pulling out the camera to inspect it. "Maybe I'll have better luck with it this time."

"We'll hope so," he agreed, reaching for a tissue and wiping his nose. "Get the pictures before you get out of the museum, if you can. If this Holmes thing really does pan out, we want the vaccine, and quickly."

I nodded, clenching my jaw. "I'll do my best."

"That's all we can ask of you," he said, giving me a brittle smile. "Be careful."

"I will," I agreed, grabbing a Band-Aid and slapping it onto the inside of my elbow. "I'll call you when I get back."

He nodded distractedly, waving as I walked out of the door.

The man was infuriating, I thought as I stomped away from the blood mobile, fuming. Someday, I was going to find out more about Vaughn, whether he liked it or not. This wasn't a fair give-and-take, and he knew it as well as I did.

***

"Was Diane upset that you missed her birthday party?" I asked, watching Dixon's face as he connected wires on the device I was to use to unscramble the safe lock.

He shrugged. "I think I was more upset about it than she was."

"I'm sorry, Dixon," I said, sitting back and crossing my arms.

"Why are you sorry?" he asked, sitting back on his heels and studying my face. His brow wrinkled in confusion. "It's not your fault."

"I know, but I still feel guilty. You have a family, and I don't. Sloane should assign someone else to go with me on these things."

"Sloane assigns who he wants where he wants," Dixon reminded me, and I nodded. "It's part of the job. And you know what, kiddo? I'm glad that we're always sent out together. You're like another child to me, Syd. A daughter."

I could feel myself tearing up. "Thank you," I croaked, swiping furiously at my cheeks. I pulled at the blonde wig I was wearing. "That means a lot to me."

"I know it does," he replied, focusing on the descrambler again. "It's true."

I sighed as the van came to a stop, dropping my purse on the floor of the van; I wouldn't be needing it inside. "I guess we're here."

"Be careful, Sydney," he admonished, and I nodded.

"You, too." I took the descrambler from his outstretched hands, smiling. "See you soon."

"I'll be here," he promised.

I opened the door of the van, hopping out and scanning the surrounding area quickly. The sky was bright blue, and green trees and red flowers dotted the street beside Blythe House. I adjusted my bag, mentally replaying the instructions I'd gotten for the mission.

Philip C. Holmes, a noted botanical artist in the nineteenth century, did covert medical research for years that had only recently been discovered by scientists in northern France, Sloane had informed me. His parents had died of the pneumonic plague when he was fourteen, and he had worked on a botanical cure for the disease from that time until his death in 1867. Holmes wrote in one of the discovered journals that the government found out what he was doing and tried to retrieve the formula from him, but he resisted, wondering if they would use it against their enemies. He was successful in creating a vaccine and coded the information into several of his natural drawings. The one Sloane wanted was the property of the British Museum and was kept off-site in Blythe House, which housed special, private collections. I assumed that Sloane was either planning to use the plague in a possible biological attack or was suspecting an attack on SD-6 in the future. I wasn't certain why he wanted a botanical cure for a disease that I knew could be treated to some degree by antibiotics, but when Vaughn expressed the CIA's interest in the cure as well, I stopped questioning it.

Dixon's voice came over my ear piece. "Syd, are you in yet?"

I crept around to the back entrance, working to open the door to the basement of the house. "I'm getting there," I murmured. "I'm at the basement entrance now."

"Watch out for possible personnel in the basement," he warned.

I frowned. "I thought we were sure that no one was going to be here," I reminded him, successfully opening the door and slinking inside. "I thought they were all supposed to be at the parade." Sloane had scheduled the mission to coincide with the Queen's official birthday celebration, assuming that most of the tourists would be out watching the celebrations at Buckingham Palace.

"They should be," he replied. "Just be on your guard."

I detached a flashlight from my belt, shining the beam around the dim room. "I always am," I whispered back, searching the room thoroughly. It was dusty and damp, with strange-looking old machinery in one corner and several old tables and chairs piled up in another. I found the narrow, rickety staircase and ascended it slowly and quietly, turning off my flashlight as I reached the door at the top.

I held my breath and carefully let the door swing open, my eyes sweeping the room. Sunshine glimmered brightly through the huge, plate-glass windows that surrounded the space, illuminating the crimson carpeting and pale walls. There didn't seem to be anyone there; I stepped carefully into the light, glancing around.

The safe was down a narrow corridor and to the left, I remembered from Marshall's map. He'd given me a code-scrambling card to slip into the lock, saying, "So, I got this idea from a Bond movie, but it works much better than that card did, because it was actually a prop, and, well...now, this thing works the same way that the one for Samba Island did…remember that one? That was the same one with the sunglasses and the…anyway, just slip this baby into the key card slot, and bingo! You're in." I slid the card in the lock, and bingo! I was in.

As the door swung open with a slight squeak, I saw the safe looming behind it, large and silver. I closed my eyes, taking a deep breath, then moved inside the door, closing it behind me with a soft click. I flipped on my flashlight and pulled out the lock descrambler, sticking it to the metallic safe and pressing my ear to the door. As if by magic, I could hear the tumblers of the lock moving inside and the loud click that signaled the opening of the lock. I turned the wheel on the front of the door and pulled, and the door swung open with a loud groan. Apparently this wasn't an often-used safe.

Inside was a jumble of boxes and shelves. I moved quickly and efficiently, turning on my ear piece. "Dixon, I'm in the safe," I informed him.

"Good girl," the answer came. "The box number is 1215."

I searched through a pile of flat metal boxes with fading labels that were peeling at the edges. Finally I found box 1214, but under that was box 1217.

"Dixon, it's not in the right place. You don't think that K-Directorate…"

"No, I don't think that," he reassured me. "Try a different place."

I rifled through three more stacks, finally coming upon box 1216. I clenched my teeth, lifting it to reveal the box underneath it…1215. "Found it," I whispered, reaching into my bag for Vaughn's CIA camera.

"Sydney…" he said uncertainly.

"Dixon?" I asked, dropping the camera back into the bag. "Dixon, what's going on?"

Suddenly, I heard shouting voices on the other end of the ear piece. "Dixon, can you hear me?" I asked, unable to keep the panic from rising in my voice. I flashed back to the Argentina mission…it couldn't be happening again…

"Syd, get out of there," he instructed quickly. Bile rose in my throat; I could hear gunfire behind him.

"Dixon?" I called out again.

"Get out, Sydney!" he ordered again, and then the line went dead.

I sucked in a lung-full of air, exhaling slowly. I had to get out of there. I had to get the box out of there… I had to get to Dixon. I stood and crammed the box into my bag. Abandoning the mess I'd made out of the other stacks, I raced out of the safe, forgetting to grab the descrambler as I left. My heart picked up and raced so hard that I thought it would pound out of my chest. I vaulted down the basement staircase and out into the fresh spring air. Only then did I catch the heart-stopping sight of our van, riddled with bullet holes, exploding in a blaze of flame and twisted metal.

I had to cram my fist into my mouth to keep from screaming. My first instinct was to run and try to help Dixon, try to see if he could possibly be alive, but I knew better than that. I had to get out of there, I knew, and I ducked behind a shrub. I had to tell Vaughn what had happened, tell him that I was alive – but that Dixon, one of my best friends and my surrogate father, probably wasn't – and that I had the sketch, but I couldn't call him…

My hand brushed the camera box in my bag. Wide-eyed, I pulled the camera out and turned it over in my hand. I held it up to an open space in the shrubbery, snapping a picture of the burning van with trembling hands. With one last look at the flames that consumed the van – and in return, my friend – I crawled around to the other side of the street, hurdling a fence, and taking off into a part of the city that I'd never seen before.

I ran faster and more desperately than I ever could remember having run before. My feet were beginning to hurt; every time the soles of my shoes slapped the asphalt of the road or concrete of the sidewalk, I winced in pain. I caught sight of a public bathroom and slowed, gasping for breath. I slipped inside, ripped off my wig, and changed into the white T-shirt and blue jeans that I always carried with me, just in case. I pulled my hair back into a ponytail and jammed a pair of lens-less glasses onto my face. Pulling out a camera, I prepared myself to look like a regular tourist.

For the millionth time I was thankful that the agents at SD-6 had trained me as well as they had; I may have been duped from the beginning, but damn it, I was a good spy. I was prepared to go out into the city on my own; I could pretend that I was from another country, that I spoke another language. I knew what I was doing.

The one thing I wasn't sure how to do was deal with what had happened at Blythe House. How was I supposed to act like it didn't matter? I swallowed hard, running a hand over my face, then pressed Vaughn's mini-camera snugly into the palm of my hand. He had to be getting the pictures; he'd send someone. He'd send someone, and then we'd find Dixon. He couldn't be dead; he had to have gotten out of that van alive. I ignored the voice of reason that noisily reminded me of the high chances he hadn't gotten out. I couldn't accept that. I wouldn't lose another person.

I shook my head furiously, drawing in cleansing breaths, and stashed the wig and my other clothes in the trash can. I started to leave the rest rooms, the bright sunlight blinding me. I caught sight of a street sign as I passed through a crosswalk and turned my palmed camera toward it, snapping a quick picture. I glanced around at the scenery, taking a general picture of the landscape with the CIA camera and then a tourist shot with my Nikon. I smiled gently at an old woman who walked past, then pretended to be very interested in the park across the street.

I must have wandered around the city for hours, unsure of my surroundings, snapping pictures at random. He had to find me. Someone had to be here soon.

**End Chapter One**


	2. Chapter Two

Title: Rules of Engagement (2/?)  
Author: Bella  
E-mail: bella_lumina@yahoo.com  
Site: http://www.fragmentary-blue.com/bella/  
Rating: PG-13  
Spoilers: Up to and including "The Box, Part Two."   
Category: Sydney/Vaughn   
Disclaimer: The characters (except Philip Holmes) aren't mine.   
Notes: Thank you to Cassandra and to Abs for the fabulous beta-readings. 

***

I felt awful. I never, ever got sick, and on the day that I was completely stressed about Sydney's latest SD-6 mission, I came down with the mother of all colds. I sneezed, and I coughed, and I went through an entire box of Ludens before my lunch break. By three o'clock I was torn between passing out on my desk and pacing the halls, waiting for confirmation that Sydney had made it out okay. Much as I cared that Sydney made it home, passing out on my desk was winning when my assistant, Annie, knocked on my door.

"Vaughn?" she broached, stepping carefully into my office. I didn't acknowledge her; I continued staring at the window, fingers steepled together in front of my face. She had to walk around and stand directly in front of me to get my attention. "Michael Vaughn, are you in there?"

I blinked furiously, coughing roughly. "Huh…what?"

She pursed her lips, obviously reluctant to continue. "Vaughn, the photos you asked for are coming back from London. I haven't seen them, but…"

I shot out of my chair like a rocket, immediately regretting it as I felt a dizzy head rush, snatching the file folder she held and opening it. On top of the stack of enlarged photos was a shot of a flame-engulfed SD-6 van. Oh, God…no… I could feel myself begin to breathe a little faster, my heart beating a little harder. I hadn't panicked like this since her near miss in Italy...only this time it didn't look like a near miss.

Annie was saying something again, but I couldn't unglue my eyes from the photo. "When did these come in?" I demanded, flipping through the photos rapidly. Street signs, pictures of buildings and parks…

"Weiss said that the first one came about an hour and a half ago," she said. "They've been coming in slowly since then. You were in that meeting with Devlin, I couldn't—"

"Thanks," I interrupted abruptly, snapping the file shut and storming out of the room.

I raced down the hall and into the darkened room where we kept our floor's surveillance equipment. "Weiss, what the hell is going on?" I asked, shoving the pictures in his face. I had to turn away, sneezing several times in rapid succession.

He held up a hand, watching a tech guy pull up a picture on the monitor in front of him. I recognized it as one of the park scenes from the photos. "She's sending in pictures from all over the city," he explained. "Well, she is, or someone is…"

I pulled out the picture of the blazing van once more, studying it carefully. "You think she was in the van?"

Haladki stormed into the room, looked at me, and shook his head. "I'm not sure that you should be here," he replied flatly.

"What are you talking about?" I returned indignantly, rolling my eyes. "I'm her handler. Who else is supposed to be here? You?"

"What are you going to do if she was in that van, huh?" he asked, turning to me and grabbing the photographs from my hand. "You're too emotional about this, Vaughn, and we all know it."

"The hell with that," I spat, tossing the empty file folder onto the desk in front of Weiss.

Weiss sighed and stood, putting a hand on my shoulder and steering me outside. "Normally, you know that I wouldn't do this, but maybe he's right."

"What?" I asked incredulously. "You've got to be kidding me..."

"No, listen," he continued. "You're sick as a dog, Vaughn. I've got him under control, and I can give Annie the pictures, and she can bring them to you."

"No," I replied firmly. "I'm fine. I need to know what's going on...I'll deal with him."

Weiss scrubbed his face with his fingertips. "Okay...here's the deal...I'll have Sarah call him and give him some paperwork. She loves me way more than she loves him."

I rolled my eyes; Weiss had had a crush on Haladki's pretty, blue-eyed assistant for months. "Thank you," I answered. "I owe you one."

"You owe me fifteen," he responded, quirking an eyebrow before picking up the nearest phone and dialing Sarah's desk.

"Listen to me," I began authoritatively as I stalked back into the room. "I want you to figure out what's going on, and then I want information on where she is." I could feel Haladki glaring at me, but I ignored him and stared blankly at the monitor, which was trained on a corner somewhere in London.

Sarah appeared in the doorway a few moments later and gave Haladki a message about some paperwork. I assumed Weiss had come up with some lame job to keep Haladki busy; he stood to take the message and started toward the exit. As he reached the door, however, a picture rapidly shot through the printer, and then another, and then another. I snatched them before Haladki had the chance, gaping as I scanned them. The first was a shot of Sydney's neat, loopy handwriting: "I'm okay." Then, "I'm in London." Then, "Vaughn, I don't know where I am."

"She's okay," I announced, bringing the photos over and handing them to Weiss. "She's sending messages."

He frowned at the photos. "Could be someone else, Vaughn," he pointed out.

"That's her handwriting," I argued. "And besides, how would anyone else know to ask for me? She's okay. She's lost."

"Have you figured anything out from the street signs?" Weiss asked the tech guy, who I now recognized as Tom, the new video expert.

"I've got it narrowed down to two areas," he explained. "She's moving around, so that makes it more difficult." He pulled out the photos, arranging them in order. "This one's nearer to Blythe House than the others…it's the first picture she sent. This one isn't too far from Victoria Station. She's heading east; she will probably end up at the Thames in a bit."

Another photo began to print on the machine, and Weiss stepped up to get it. "Can you train the camera approximately where you think she might be?" I asked, pulling up a chair.

"She's in the crowd for the Queen's birthday parade," Weiss called out, waving the latest photograph. "Buckingham Palace, Tom…"

"This is a long shot, and you all know it," Haladki argued, and Weiss shot him a look.

Tom punched in a few numbers, and a view of the thick crowd of tourists around Buckingham Palace popped up on the monitor. "Hell," I said under my breath. "How are we ever going to find her in that mess?"

"She's near the road," Weiss called. "I can see the Queen's carriage." Tom zoomed in the camera view accordingly.

"Come on," I murmured, grasping the edge of the table and trying to ignore the increasing pounding in my head. "Come on…"

He zoomed in one more time and, miraculously Sydney's confused face could be spotted in the corner of the screen. "She's there," I said, pointing furiously at the monitor. "That's her, right there."

"You're sure?" Tom asked skeptically.

I shot him a look, and he just nodded, focusing more clearly on her face. Her hair was pulled back from her face in a tight ponytail, and she was wearing a pair of false glasses. "Call Grant at the London office and have him send agents in to retrieve her," I ordered Haladki, grabbing a pile of her photographs and standing.

"You know him better than I do," Haladki argued. "You'd better call him and let him know…"

"I'm not supposed to be involved with this, remember?" I replied angrily. "Call him and tell them to take her to the safe house apartment closest to Buckingham Palace."

"Where are you going?" Weiss asked, still concentrating on the monitors.

I intercepted the latest picture to come off the printer, a shot of Sydney's pleading face, before walking through the doorway. "I'm going to London," I replied, rounding the corner sharply.

***

I bit savagely into the sandwich I'd bought from a deli in the middle of the airport; it wasn't very satisfying, but then, I wasn't very hungry. I tapped my foot anxiously, putting the sandwich down and grabbing the paper I'd brought with me. I always made a point of reading the newspaper, although I knew some of the advanced information that the media didn't. I kept reading them out of habit. Today, I was having an especially difficult time focusing. The words swam on the page.

__

She is in London, and she is obviously scared, and she's all alone. Thoughts of Sydney swam furiously through my mind. _One of her best friends is most likely dead, burned in that horrible fire. There is someone out there who has killed Dixon and who would like to have Sydney out of the way, too._

"Flight 1237, bound for London Heathrow," a woman at the ticket counter announced over the loudspeaker. I looked up, my train of thought broken. "Boarding will begin for first-class passengers only."

I grabbed my briefcase and my small suitcase, tossing the sandwich in a nearby trash can and rolling the paper up. Getting in line, I grabbed my brand-new false passport and ID, studying them again quickly. Max, Weiss's buddy in the photo department, had whipped up a new ID for me – and a new one for Sydney, too – only ten minutes before I left the office. I was thankful that he had my CIA identification photo on hand, because in a newly taken photo I would have looked as bad as I felt.

I had the sudden urge to sneeze just as I stepped up to the ticket counter. The clerk winced at me, watching me sneeze powerfully, reaching into my pocket for a Kleenex. "It's going to be a long flight with that cold," she remarked, clicking her tongue at me.

Smiling at her, I pushed my ticket and my passport across the counter. "Do you need my driver's license?"

"No, we can do this with one ID," she said, focusing on her computer screen. "Nice name. My father's name is Ben, too."

"It's served me well," I remarked. And it had, for the last hour or so.

"Well, Ben Davidson, I think this should do it," she said, stapling my tickets together and handing me my blue passport. She shot me a flirtatious smile. "Hope you make it okay."

I gave her a reluctant grin. "Thanks…me, too."

I hefted my bag onto my shoulder, shoving the documents into the pocket of my bag. The line to board was relatively short; I handed my ticket in, and I was ushered quickly into the first-class section.

First-class is so much nicer than coach is. I'd flown this particular route more than a few times crammed into a coach seat. After my father died my mother and I would make twice yearly trips to France to see my grandparents. I had a ritual to make the flight go more quickly; watch the in-flight movie for an hour, read a book for an hour, watch the in-flight movie for another hour, then take a Dramamine and pass out on my mother's shoulder for the duration.

This time I could work, I supposed. I had brought a book, but my head was so cloudy that I wasn't sure I would be able to concentrate on it. I was almost too paranoid to sleep on this flight.

"Hi," I heard from beside me, and looked up to see an elderly man grinning at me. "I suppose we'll be enjoying each other's company for a few hours, eh?"

I hated having to get to know people on a plane. "I guess so."

"You're young to be able to afford this kind of seat," he remarked in his crotchety old-man way. "At your age, I would have been riding in the cargo hold, I think."

"My company pays for the seats," I said affably. "I'd probably be flying coach without them."

"You're lucky," he replied. "I'm James. And who might you be?"

"Ben," I answered without hesitation. "Flying across for a meeting?"

He shook his head. "Visiting my new granddaughter. My son married a British girl. I've only seen him twice since." He chuckled.

"Must be exciting," I remarked mildly, rummaging in my seat pocket for the promised pair of headphones. They'd probably have the in-flight movie in a couple of different languages; I could listen to it in French. I always feared that mine was getting rusty, since I didn't get to see my mom as often as I'd like. Over the last year Alice had been with me on most of my visits to Mom's house, and we had spoken English for her sake.

James was saying something again, and I had completely missed it. "Sorry?" I asked.

He shook his head amiably. "I asked if you had any children."

"No, no," I said. "I'm not married."

"Oh…?" he murmured, trailing off.

I felt like rolling my eyes. "I'm meeting my girlfriend in London," I explained, mentally thwacking myself in the head. I wondered what Sydney's reaction to _that_ statement would be. Then I wondered why I had immediately assigned Sydney to that role.

"If she's a good one, I'd get her a ring right away," he advised, leaning back in his seat. "Joe – that's my son – Joe says that it's hard to find a good woman today."

"I think that it's sometimes difficult to find the right woman," I amended, sneezing suddenly. I sneezed three more times in rapid succession, fumbling for my handkerchief.

"Sounds like a nasty cold. So, is this girlfriend the right woman?" James pressed. Apparently the guy was hell-bent on being some sort of professional airborne relationship counselor.

"I don't know," I replied honestly, blowing my nose. "We haven't been together all that long."

"Oh, come on," he urged. "When you know, you know. You love her?"

I was silent.

"You ought to tell her," he counseled. "Women like to hear that."

"I think it's too soon to know if I love her," I replied. "Our situation is…complicated."

He waved a hand in the air, as if magically erasing the problems. "Complications shouldn't matter. Tell her that you love her…you'll see what happens."

Perhaps a punch in the face, I mused, sniffing. I felt the cold medicine I had taken finally kicking in, and I relaxed back in my seat.

Did I love her? It didn't matter, I decided. I couldn't. We couldn't. It would be the biggest mistake we'd ever make, I was sure of it.

***

I slept through the entire flight; so much for paranoia. My eyes felt gritty when James pushed my shoulder, telling me that we were landing. My feet felt like bricks, solid and heavy. I wearily gathered up my bags and tickets, quickly filling out the customs form for a flight attendant and disembarking.

It was cool and quiet in London. Clouds shrouded the evening sunlight, and I had to rub my eyes vigorously to see clearly in the dim light. I went through the airport quickly and efficiently, using my false name and passport. I was supposed to take a cab to the CIA safe house closest to Buckingham Palace to meet Sydney.

I wondered where she was; I wondered what she was feeling. After the shock of her mother's betrayal, I had listened to her speak more and more about Dixon. She considered him a surrogate father. _Another family member taken away from her suddenly. She must be a mess._

My cell phone rang unexpectedly as I walked through the terminal. I unearthed it from the bottom of my briefcase, opening it and answering with a generic "hello?" instead of my usual greeting.

"Agent Vaughn, there has been a change in plans," an unfamiliar voice explained without preamble.

"Who is this?" I demanded, my eyes automatically sweeping the surrounding area.

"This is Agent Reynolds from the London sector," he answered. "You'll meet your cab as planned, and you'll be taken to the safe house, but you will not be meeting Agent Bristow."

My heart stopped for a split second. "What are you talking about? Where's Grant?"

"There's been a change in plans with the rescue mission. We'll explain more when you arrive," he responded cryptically.

I couldn't keep anger from seeping into my voice. "You'll explain to me now," I demanded.

"Go find your cab," he replied. With that, the conversation was cut off, and I was left standing in the busy crowd of travelers, uncertain again.

**End Chapter Two**


	3. Chapter Three

Title: Rules of Engagement (3/?)  
Author: Bella  
E-mail: bella_lumina@yahoo.com  
Site: http://www.fragmentary-blue.com/bella/  
Rating: PG-13  
Spoilers: Up to and including "The Coup"...will go AU after that.  
Category: Sydney/Vaughn  
Disclaimer: The characters (except Philip Holmes) aren't mine.   
Notes: Thank you to Cassandra and to Abs for the fabulous beta-readings.   
  
*** 

"What do you want from me?" I asked savagely, struggling to free myself from the grip of two burly men who had latched on to me in the parade crowd. "What are you doing?"

"Stay still," one of them ordered, grasping my arm tightly. "We're here to help you."

"Help me, my ass," I spat, wrenching my arm free. "Let me go."

"We're here on orders, Agent Bristow," the other sighed in a cultured British accent. "We're doing our job."

"Who the hell are you?" I asked, trying to ignore the stares of the people around me as they practically dragged me out of the crowd. "How do you know my name?"

The first man stopped and stared at me. "Agent Bristow, we've been sent by Agent Vaughn. That's all we can tell you."

I felt myself ease into his grip, pressing my lips together tightly and nodding. If they knew Vaughn, they had to be CIA. "Okay…okay. Where are we going?"

"Just come with us," he replied, walking with a hand still wrapped around my forearm.

I still didn't feel comfortable, and I couldn't put my finger on the reason why. "Vaughn sent you?"

"Yes," the second man said quickly, his eyes trained straight ahead.

We turned a corner, and they steered me toward a sleek black car, practically pushing me into the back seat. "Are you CIA?" I asked. I was greeted with stern stares.

"Agent Bristow," the first man replied as he pulled out into the street. I flinched involuntarily; I wasn't used to driving on the left side of the road, and it unnerved me just a little.

"You can't give me any more information at all?" I wheedled.

"I'm afraid not," the second man answered, tapping a cigarette out of a pack and lighting it carefully.

I coughed. "Those things'll kill you," I offered, and he turned around and gave me a very succinct glare. "Right," I murmured, sinking back into the upholstery.

"Did Reynolds want us at the back entrance?" one murmurs softly to the other. I listen carefully, clutching my bag tightly to my front. I fidgeted, tapping my foot against the floor, then jostling my knee. A sign caught my eye as we drove into an underground parking garage; we were at a hotel. That confused me, because I knew the CIA had a safe house in London. Why weren't we going there?

My eyes began scanning the area furiously, and I shifted to get a better view out of the window. I swallowed. "Why aren't we going to the safe house?" I asked quickly, knowing I wouldn't get an answer. Silence was my only response, and I sighed, closing my eyes. My heart began racing.

They parked and grabbed me from the back of the car, suddenly wrapping a scarf around my eyes. I let out a surprised cry. The scarf completely blocked my vision; I couldn't even make out a hazy outline of the surroundings. "What are you doing?" I asked desperately.

"We need you to stay quiet," one of the men instructed, gripping my arm roughly. "You've already drawn enough attention to the presence here. We don't need anymore disturbances."

"Please, just tell me something," I begged softly, knowing how pathetic I sounded. I couldn't help it. Surely Vaughn hadn't sent these two, but if they knew his name...

"Quiet," one replied roughly, and I consented, biting my lower lip as they maneuvered me into the garage elevator. We rose quickly, and they pushed me out on what must have been one of the top floors. I heard no footsteps but ours as we rushed down a hallway. There were no other sounds until I heard one of the men pulling a key card out of his pocket and sliding it into the lock. I sighed with relief as we entered the cool room. It didn't last long, though: in a few moments I felt plastic-handcuff ties being slid around my wrists and tightened.

"What are you doing to me?" I gasped out, fighting against their hands.

"Just stay calm, Agent Bristow," one of them replied quickly, steering me to sit on the edge of the bed. "We'll be right outside."

I fought the ties angrily. "Why are you doing this?" I asked desperately. "You don't have to tie me up..."

"We're following orders," one of them murmured. "Sit there and do as you're told."

The door slammed behind them, and I lied down and curled up on the bed. Vaughn had ordered them to lock me in a hotel room? Something wasn't right.

***

I was unsure of how long I lay on the bed, my hands bound. The hard plastic ties cut into my skin painfully.

Suddenly there was a voice at the door. "Is she in there?" a man asked in a rough voice.

"Yes," one of the men answered.

"What the hell do you think you're doing, keeping her here like this?"

It was Vaughn; I was sure of it. He sounded strange, but it had to be him. Why had he risked coming to London? Surely he knew how dangerous this was. Of course, part of me was doing cartwheels; Vaughn had come to get me.

"We're simply following orders."

"Whose orders? Reynolds? Trust me when I tell you that you won't be taking orders from him much longer…" There was a pause. "Why isn't she at the safe house?"

"When Reynolds found out she was SD-6, he didn't want to risk it," was the reply.

"Didn't want to risk it...she's CIA, you idiot!" Vaughn seethed. "Open the door."

"Reynolds said--"

"Open the door!" Vaughn ordered, and I heard a key in the lock. "Oh, man...Syd?"

"Yeah?" I asked weakly.

Vaughn sneezed loudly, and I heard the door click softly behind him as he closed it; another click signaled that the lock had been latched. "Hang on just a second..." I heard him pull out a tissue and blow his nose. "Damn this cold."

"Vaughn, what's going on?" I asked softly.

I felt his warm hands on my face; he gently unwound the blindfold with slightly rough fingertips. "You're okay?" he asked as I blinked furiously, unaccustomed to the bright lamp light of the room. He brushed a stray piece of hair off my face, then pulled out a little pocketknife and reached around me to cut the ties that bound my wrists. His arms went to either side of me, and I fought the urge to lean against him. His body was warm, and his scent was comforting and familiar: soap and light cologne.

He threw the discarded plastic cuffs to the floor and massaged my wrists gently. I gave in and brought my arms around to hug him, and he hesitated for a moment before returning the embrace. He held me for a moment, then released me and scooted away slowly. "Are you okay?" he repeated. "I'm so sorry, Sydney...the guy I asked to come and get you is on vacation, and the agent in charge right now is a complete jackass. He wouldn't even tell me where you were at first." 

"I figured something wasn't right before they even put me in the car, but they mentioned your name, so I went along with it," I said, sighing. 

He looked at me for a long moment, and I could feel warmth suffuse through me. He again asked, "Are you okay?"

I shrugged. "No broken bones." I paused, looking down at my reddened wrists. "He's gone, isn't he?"

He hesitated. "Dixon?" he asked softly, and I nodded. "Oh, Syd, there's no way of knowing. He could have gotten out of the van."

"You got the pictures?"

He nodded. "That was a smart thing to do."

"Thank you," I whispered, fighting the tears that threatened to spill over. "You didn't have to come to get me."

He raised an eyebrow. "I didn't?"

"No...I mean, I could have gotten back myself...you could have sent a different team."

He tilted his head toward the doorway. "We didn't fare too well with the guys I got," he pointed out.

"But you're sick," I added, reaching up to run a fingertip over the reddened skin at the side of his nose. "You should have sent someone else."

"You wanted someone else to come?"

I was silent for a moment. "No." I watched him for a moment. "Thank you for coming to get me."

"You're welcome," he replied, covering his mouth and coughing. "Sorry."

"What am I going to do about Dixon?" I murmured, and he shook his head.

"I don't know. We'll think of something."

"When SD-6 loses an agent, they don't recover the body. They don't even try. They just leave the agent there. Remember the agent who took over SD-6?" He nodded. "They left him in Chechnya, Vaughn. They didn't even check to make sure he wasn't alive. They won't look for Dixon." I sniffed, closing my eyes tightly, willing the tears to stay in check. I hated crying, and I'd already bawled in front of Vaughn on more than one occasion. I didn't want him to think it was a regular thing for me.

He looked at me, his eyes far away and sympathetic. "We'll look for him, then. I promise you."

"Okay," I whispered, nodding. My voice broke as a single tear escaped down my cheek. "I can't lose him, Vaughn...he can't be gone..."

He reached in to embrace me again as I began to shake with sobs. "I'm so sorry, Sydney...God, I'm so sorry..."

"He's not dead, Vaughn...he's not..."

He held me, and I began to realize that the CIA was completely right in accusing him of being too emotionally attached. We both were, and we knew it. I couldn't see how that was wrong, though; I couldn't imagine having a handler who was impersonal and all business. I couldn't imagine having anyone but Vaughn. His comforting hands on my back and whispers in my ear were calming, soothing. He rocked me until I had no tears left.

***

An hour later we were at the airport. He had brought me a change of clothes and a new passport; I was Vanessa Gray, a lawyer from Pasadena. I felt sorry for him; he was miserable. He'd gone through an entire roll of cough drops since he had showed up at the hotel.

"Ready for your second flight in six hours?" I asked mildly, looking up at him as we strolled through the baggage area.

He shrugged, watching my expression. "This is old hat for me, really. I'm used to it."

"You fly to Europe often?"

"Not anymore, not regularly. But when I was a teenager I flew to France six or seven times a year with my mother," he offered, stepping in line behind me when we reached the ticket counter. I offered my new passport and ID to the man behind the counter and waited while he silently stapled my ticket.

"Thank you, Ms. Gray," he said softly, then reached for Vaughn's identification.

"You know so much about me, and I know almost nothing about you," I murmured as we moved to sit down near the gate.

"That's not true," he objected, and I looked at him in disbelief.

"Vaughn, come on," I whispered. "You never tell me anything about yourself."

"I just did," he argued. "I flew to France constantly when I was growing up."

"Why?" I asked, and he raised an eyebrow.

"Why?"

"Yeah."

He cleared his throat. "Okay. My mother is French -- which you knew already, I believe -- and my grandparents still live in Paris."

"Do you have brothers or sisters?"

"No," he answered softly. "No cousins, either. Other than my dad's two sisters, my mom, and my mom's parents, it's just me."

"Where did you go to college?"

"UCLA. Majored in poli sci. Went to law school. Joined the Agency, which completely pissed off my mom for about a year." He smirked. "And that's pretty much it."

"Wow, you're an interesting guy," I deadpanned.

He shrugged. "Hey, you asked."

"I'll bet you already know all that stuff about me," I guessed, and I could see the hint of a smile at the edges of his mouth.

"You went to Pepperdine for a semester and hated it, then transferred to USC because Francie was there. SD-6 recruited you right after you got there. You majored in English as an undergrad with two minors, one in French and one in international financing, which I commend you on, because that totally sucks."

I watched him, feeling my mouth drop open. "You got all that from my case file?" What the heck else was in that file?

"Yeah," he replied, smirking. "Well, except the part about Francie. I guessed that one. I did know that she went to USC, though. Will went there, too."

"The second minor was a fake," I pointed out as we sat down in the horrible plastic chairs that every airport has, far away from the various other passengers waiting to board. Our backs were to the wall; we sat in a corner, with everyone nearby in our full view. There were agents from the London sector milling about and five more who would be scattered around us on the plane, so we were safe for the time being.

He raised an eyebrow. "You're not an international finance geek? I'm so disappointed…"

"Shut up," I replied. "Sloane planted it…almost every agent under the Credit Dauphine cover has some random banking major or minor on their transcript. Dixon's is accounting, Marshall's is financial analysis." I caught myself after mentioning Dixon, and Vaughn gave me a quick glance before continuing.

His brow furrowed, and he coughed. "Do we know about that?" He reached into his soft leather briefcase for four pills that I recognized immediately: two for a headache, two for a cold. He swallowed them without water; I never could do that.

I leaned back slightly. "Shouldn't you? Surely my dad would have mentioned it…"

"I'll check on it when we get back," he answered, and suddenly we were all business again. I wasn't ready to end the personal questioning.

"What was your minor?" I asked quickly, and he raised an eyebrow.

"You're really curious, aren't you?" he asked, and I nodded. "I actually minored in psychology, but I picked up an extra French lit minor because the classes were easy."

"Were you in a fraternity?"

"Yeah," he said, which surprised me. I'd never pegged Vaughn as a frat kind of guy. "Were you in a sorority?"

"Like I had the time," I pointed out. "Francie and I used to make fun of the sorority girls in our classes. I'm surprised you didn't know that."

"I did," he admitted with a grin, reaching into his jacket pocket for yet another cough drop. He popped Ludens like they were M&Ms. "I just feel weird having to answer all of the questions."

"I'm just evening out the playing field," I joked, and he shrugged. "Where were you born?" I pressed on.

He shook his head. "In France. A minuscule place in Normandy."

"So, wait…you're not an American citizen?"

"No, I am," he corrected. "My dad had the papers filed when I was three."

"Flight 235 bound for Los Angeles will begin boarding," a woman's voice blared over the PA system. "First class and those with small children first, please."

"That's us," Vaughn reminded. He turned and picked up my bag before I could reach it. "We're sitting together on the plane, but the second we hit Los Angeles, you go one way and I go another. Your father will be there to pick you up. Understand?" he asked in a hushed tone.

I nodded, then caught his arm before he could begin to walk toward the gate. "Hey, Vaughn?"

"What?" he asked, turning toward me, his green eyes clouding with concern.

"Thank you," I replied, letting my arm drop back to my side. "This is above and beyond…you didn't have to do this."

He nodded soberly. "I know that. And, Syd? We're going to find out what happened to Dixon." I nodded, trying to swallow around the lump that was rapidly forming in my throat.

We walked toward the gate and boarded the plane; he fell asleep against the window for the duration of the flight. I stayed awake, watching him doze quietly, and wondered exactly what I was getting myself into.

**End Chapter Three**


	4. Chapter Four

Title: Rules of Engagement (4/?)  
Author: Bella  
E-mail: bella_lumina@yahoo.com  
Site: http://www.fragmentary-blue.com/bella/  
Rating: PG-13  
Spoilers: Up to and including "The Coup"...will go AU after that.  
Category: Sydney/Vaughn  
Disclaimer: The characters (except Philip Holmes) aren't mine.   
Notes: Thank you to Cassandra and to Abs for the fabulous beta-readings.   
  
*** 

The phone jarred me out of a comfortable sleep. I rolled and looked at the digital clock beside my bed: five-thirty. "Shit," I murmured, rubbing my bleary eyes. I knocked my wallet off my night table in my hurry to grab the phone. "Vaughn," I answered mechanically.

"Mike, thank God you're home," a rushed female voice replied. Oh, no...

"Alice?" I asked groggily. "What's going on?"

"It's no big deal, really," she parried, and I groaned.

"You're calling me at five-thirty in the morning, it had better be a big deal," I responded, sitting up and stretching.

"It's just...okay. To make a long story short, I've been kicked out of my apartment."

This did not surprise me. "What did you do?"

"I didn't pay my rent," she admitted, and I rolled my eyes.

"Allie, can I help you out?" I asked, and I could hear her exhale on the other end of the phone. "What do you need?"

"I don't want a loan from you," she began. "I can't feel indebted to you anymore...we're not...you know. But if I could crash in the spare room for a few nights, until I can find a new place..."

I sighed. "You don't have any other options?"

"Mike, you know that my parents are in Seattle," she reminded. "You know that I only moved here in the first place because of you."

I remembered all too well. "Fine. The spare room's all yours."

She paused. "I didn't even think to ask if I was intruding...I didn't ask if someone else was with you..."

"Just me," I clarified. "It's fine, Allie...I owe you."

"No, you don't," she said firmly. "Listen, I have to be out of here by ten...can I drop my stuff over there before I leave for work?"

"I've got a meeting at seven." I had a meeting with Sydney at seven, but Alice definitely wouldn't want to hear about that. She left me because she knew I had feelings for someone else; she assumed that it was the new woman at work. She had no idea of the actual situation, and I intended that she never find out. "Do you still have your key?"

"No," she replied. "I gave it back...is the spare in the same place?"

"Yeah," he answered. "So, you know...just come by whenever."

"Thanks, Mike," she said softly. "This means a lot to me."

"Don't, Allie..." I began, rubbing my temples. "It's not a big deal. Don't make it into one?"

She hung up on me, and I tried to roll over and go back to sleep, but rest eluded me.

***

"You're okay?"

It was the first time we'd met since SD-6 had held a memorial service for Dixon, and she looked weary and resigned. "I'm okay," she replied. "I'm dealing with it. I'm...I'm dealing with it." She paused. "I still think he got out of that van."

"Sydney..."

"I don't care if I'm setting myself up for disappointment. I'm going to keep thinking that until I'm proven wrong."

I nodded. "So, what did you tell Francie? She knew him, didn't she?"

"I didn't know what to say," she began, sighing. "I told Will and Francie that we'd been in a car accident. The scrapes I had seemed like proof enough. They came with me to the memorial service. God, I'm such a liar."

"You couldn't help it," I offered. "And Diane?"

"Sloane told her that there had been an accident, that Dixon was dead. That they couldn't recover the body. He had kids, Vaughn...they were standing there, and all I could think about was standing at my mom's grave. Remember that feeling?"

I watched her face carefully. "Like you can't breathe until your dad...your mom...comes back?"

"Yeah...hey, you okay?" she asked, scrunching up her face with concern. She peered at my face. "You look really tired. I thought you'd gotten over that cold. Seriously, Vaughn, it's been two weeks."

"I did," I replied suddenly, cringing inside as the words left my lips. I had just wasted a great excuse.

She paced in front of me, her stilettos clicking against the smooth concrete floor of the warehouse. "So what's the matter?"

"It's...personal," I managed, and she raised an eyebrow.

"Perfect," she finished. "You still owe me plenty of personal information."

"Sydney..." I began, but she held up a hand.

"You're not getting out of this. Come on, you know that you're the only one I can confide in. Can't I be that person for you, too?" She sat down on a nearby crate, careful of the slim black dress she was wearing. She looked amazing.

I sighed. "It has to do with one of my ex-girlfriends. You're sure you still want to know?"

I thought I saw her swallow, but that could have been my imagination. "Sure, I'm game."

"She called me this morning. She's been evicted," I confessed. "She needed a place to stay."

"Did you put her up in a hotel or something?" she fished.

"Something," I replied carefully. "She's staying in my guest room."

She definitely swallowed that time. "Must be interesting."

"I don't know," I conceded. "She brought her stuff over after I left for work. Maybe we'll just be strangers passing in the night. That would be the perfect scenario." I paused. "I take that back...if she'd find her own apartment and pay her rent for once, that would be the perfect scenario."

She chuckled. "Is this the blonde one? The Thanksgiving girlfriend?"

I allowed myself a wry smile. "Yeah. Her name's Alice."

"Alice." She tested the name on her tongue and frowned.

"So, anyway. They're telling people he's dead?"

Her frown deepened, and she sighed. "It's just what I expected. They aren't going to search for him."

"I'm so sorry, Syd."

"I know, I know." She stood and began pacing again, clutching her purse to her side. "Is there any way that the CIA could do anything?"

"I've looked into it," I explained. "I could send some agents around the area. I've asked Devlin to put the London sector on high alert."

"Speaking of which," she began slowly, "did you ever find out why Reynolds pulled that little stunt on me?"

"Because he's an ass," I replied, and she laughed. "No, I'm serious. The guy's worse than Lambert. I'm not sure why he decided to break rank and put himself in charge of you like that, honestly, except that he apparently thought you were still loyal to SD-6. I know that his behavior's being questioned by the Agency."

"I'd hope so," she said softly. "Listen, I hate to talk and run, but I've got a tech briefing with Marshall in twenty minutes, and I've got to get all the way across town..."

"No, no," I assured her. "Not a problem. Write down the details of the next mission, call the number, dead drop in the trash can. You know, the usual."

She nodded quickly, and said goodbye before strolling confidently out into the bright June sunlight.

***

I walked into my house that night to find my ex-girlfriend sitting on my couch in her pajamas, eating Chinese food and watching an old rerun of _Quantum Leap_. Her long blonde hair was piled haphazardly on top of her head. "Hey, Alice," I greeted quietly, tossing my briefcase on the dining room table and loosening my tie.

"Hey," she replied, smiling. "You're missing a journey back to the Civil War and some really great cashew chicken."

"Damn," I answered sarcastically, and she smiled again. In my head, I replayed a similar greeting that had taken place hundreds of times over the past years of my life. In that scenario, though, there was always a kiss that was quite often followed by sleeping together on the couch. Alice and I were always extremely compatible in that sense; I think that's one of the reasons our relationship lasted as long as it did.

"How was work?" she asked quietly.

I shrugged. "Same old."

"Paperwork?"

"Something like that." Alice thought the same thing that my mother did, that I worked a nondescript desk job at the Agency.

She nodded, rooting around in her food container for a piece of chicken. She speared it with a chopstick and chewed it quickly. "I borrowed your newspaper to look for listings. Hope you don't mind."

"No, it's fine," I replied. "Listen, I think I'm going to go to bed. I'm beat."

"Okay," she answered mildly. "I'll turn off the lights."

"Don't forget to lock the door," I reminded, and she nodded.

"Night, Mike."

"Goodnight, Allie."

This was new. I hadn't stayed in the same house, but not the same bedroom, with Alice since we were in college. We started dating during my second year of law school, and soon we were sharing an apartment. We broke up right before I joined the CIA, which was convenient, because I didn't have to tell her about my new covert job, but we got back together a year before I met Sydney. My mother hated her, which was an endless source of conflict.

Our break up had been a long time in coming, but if I was honest with myself I could admit that Sydney had been the final factor. I'd go home at night, and I'd be almost dismayed that the woman in my bed had pale hair instead of dark. I'd make love to Alice and fantasize about Sydney. I knew that it was wrong, and I knew that it was inappropriate; I was incredibly relieved when she moved out. Of course, that only ended one side of the crimes on my part; I still found myself thinking thoughts that I shouldn't be, still having dreams at night that I definitely shouldn't be dreaming.

***

To my complete disdain, my first meeting of the next morning was with Jack Bristow. He's Sydney's father, and that should score him some points, but honestly, he's just infuriating. He likes to give younger agents an inferiority complex; he pulled a gun on me while Sydney was in Romania. Every so often I'm seriously tempted to say something about Sydney to him: "I'm sure your daughter would tell you otherwise," or "It's pretty obvious to me that I know your daughter a little better than you, bastard." Because I value my life, I keep my mouth shut.

I was completely shocked to see Devlin in the conference room when I walked in. I scanned the faces of those around him: Jack, Davenport, and most surprisingly, Dr. Barnett. _Great_, I thought. What had I done this time? I hadn't done anything out of order for months; even the trip to London had been cleared with Devlin. They couldn't be taking me off the case again...

"Agent Vaughn, we've got a proposition for you," Devlin began, folding his arms over his chest. 

I sat forward, unsure of what would be said next. "What kind of proposition?" I asked warily.

"Agent Bristow -- Jack, that is -- brought this idea to me a few days ago, and I'd like your input on it. I've already spoken with Agent Davenport and Dr. Barnett..." he continued.

I had to force myself not to fidget nervously. God only knows what Barnett had told him about me. "What kind of idea?" I asked again, and Devlin's lips pressed into a wry smile.

"With the apparent death of SD-6 Agent Dixon in London, we feel it may be the perfect opportunity to insert another agent into the SD-6 operation," he said plainly, and suddenly I could see exactly where this was going.

"You want me to pull double agent duty?" I replied, raising my eyebrows. "With all due respect, sir, I'm a handler, not a field agent."

Jack stood and began pacing, shoving his hands in his pockets. "We want someone to go in who already has the basic knowledge necessary to function as a part of SD-6," he began. "We want someone who can work with the personnel."

"With Sydney," I clarified, and he nodded. I tried not to look at Dr. Barnett, fearful of her expression.

"We want someone she can trust," he finished, not looking me in the eye. "It's become obvious to us that she's comfortable with you. And vice versa." He looked up at me, raising an eyebrow, not cracking a smile.

"You know the building," Davenport pointed out. "You've been there before."

"In the basement," I pointed out. I had no idea what to say. "I'm not a field agent," I repeated dully, sitting back in my chair and scrubbing my face with my fingertips. What would it be like to work with her again? To see her in action, to feel the adrenaline rush of a mission with her? That adrenaline rush had been the highest high I'd had in a very long time...

"We've looked at your records, Vaughn," Barnett pointed out, and my eyes flew to her for the first time. "You've had a history of making good decisions under pressure. Your physicals are flawless."

"We think you're capable of this, Agent Vaughn," Jack said slowly, his eyes boring holes into me. "You're the obvious choice." 

"We can give you some time to think about this," Davenport offered, and I nodded quickly. "A day or two, Vaughn. No more."

"This would be a great opportunity for the Agency," Devlin reminded me. "Your help would be greatly appreciated. We'd hate to have to ask someone like--"

"I'll do it," I blurted out suddenly, searching their faces. Barnett seemed taken aback, Devlin and Davenport nodded thoughtfully, and Jack stared at a non-existent spot on the wall.

"You'll go through two weeks of training for this mission," Jack instructed quickly. "After that, I'll introduce you to Sloane as a new recruit who has already been working for the CIA."

"I understand," I said firmly, completely unsure of why I had agreed to do this. "I'm sorry...I have a briefing downstairs in ten minutes, and I've got to pick up my notes."

We said our respective good-byes, and I trudged back to my office slowly. A double agent? I wasn't sure this was a good idea at all.

***

Weiss shook his head when he walked into my office the next morning, carefully closing the door behind him. "A double?"

"Devlin told you?"

"He met with me this morning. I'm going to be her handler and yours. Have you got any idea what you're getting yourself into?"

I shrugged. "They need me there."

"That's bullshit, Vaughn," Weiss countered, slumping down in the chair in front of my desk. "You've been her handler for a year. You know the kind of stuff they send her to do."

"I know that..."

"Retrieve the device, take down the three-hundred-pound guard, kiss up to the owner, and run like hell," he elaborated. "Remember Crete? She almost blew up in Crete!"

"I know what I'm getting into."

"I think this is a stupid move," he continued.

I blinked, leaning back in my chair. "You don't think I can do it?"

"Face it, you've barely had any field experience..."

"That's not entirely true," I argued, but he put up a hand to stop me.

"Oh, come on. You've worked a desk job for years. You'd never even been a handler before Bristow." He stood and paced in front of my desk. "I just...Vaughn, it's not a good idea to become a field agent just because you've got a thing for her. They made that clear to you, didn't they?"

"I do not--"

He gave me a look. "Vaughn."

I pressed my lips together, staring at the worn, old baseball my father used to keep in his office that now rested on my desk. He'd let me play catch with it when I came to work with my mom. It wasn't anything special, no autographs or significance, just a tattered old baseball he kept in the office for me. For the last day I had started telling myself that my father was the reason I had taken the job. Really, I wasn't sure why. "That's not why I agreed."

"Are you sure? Because it's going to be an awfully convenient set-up for the two of you. You'll get to go all over the world with her, just you. And that's an idiotic reason to do something like this."

"It's work, Weiss. We're not going to be on vacation."

"I just hope you realize that," he warned. "Because if I have to be your handler, I don't want to deal with you two slobbering all over each other when you're supposed to be working..."

"You're seriously messed up, you know that?" I asked, rolling my eyes. "It's _work_."

"You'll get to see her in public," he pointed out. "You didn't do this so you could take advantage of that?"

Had I? "I didn't do this just so I could be in public with her."

"Don't feed me any of this 'patriot' crap," he said.

"Okay, _Haladki_," I shot back, and he rolled his eyes, sitting back down in the chair.

"You know he's going to shit a brick when he hears this, don't you?" Weiss replied, grinning.

I could keep a smile from spreading across my face. "The thought did cross my mind. So you're going to be our handler?"

"Apparently," he answered. "And you'd better not get me fired. And none of this 'emotional attachment' stuff, because I don't think Sarah would appreciate it."

I launched the baseball at him, and he barely caught it before it smacked him in the face. "You're an asshole, Weiss." I paused, snickering. "Wouldn't Barnett love that case?"

Weiss laughed, tossing the baseball up in the air and catching it. "I can see it now..."

I stared at the blotter on my desk after my laughter had died out. "I'm not going to be around here much for the next few weeks; I'm going in for more field training. I'll be here a couple of times before I have meetings with Sydney."

"What does she think about all of this?"

I shook my head. "I have no idea. They're not going to let me tell her."

"Why not?"

"I'm not sure. Jack told me I couldn't tell her, and he scares the shit out of me, so I'm going to be nice."

"Man, what did he think when they told him?"

"It's weird. It was his idea," I replied, and Weiss raised his eyebrows. "I know. The guy pulls a gun on me, and suddenly he's asking me to work with his daughter."

"We start in two weeks, right?"

"Yeah," I answered. "They have a scheduled mission to Vienna, and that'll be the starting point."

Weiss nodded, standing. "Listen, I've got a meeting. I'm serious about what I said before...this is a hell of a risk to take because of her. I'd be sure I was completely certain about this if I were you. I'm only saying this because I'm your friend, man. This is a hell of a risk."

"I know," I replied. "Thanks."

"No problem," he replied, tossing my dad's baseball back to me before leaving the office, closing the door behind him.

**End of Chapter Four**


	5. Chapter Five

Title: Rules of Engagement (5/?)   
Author: Bella   
E-mail: bella_lumina@yahoo.com   
Site: http://www.fragmentary-blue.com/bella/   
Rating: PG-13   
Spoilers: Up to and including "The Coup"...will go AU after that.   
Category: Sydney/Vaughn   
Disclaimer: The characters (except Philip Holmes) aren't mine.   
Notes: Thank you to Cassandra and to Abs for the fabulous beta-readings.   
  
*** 

I was scheduled to fly to Vienna at four o'clock in the afternoon, so I awoke early and began packing quietly. I hadn't expected Francie to walk in.

"They're making you take _another_ trip?" she asked incredulously, leaning against the door frame and folding her arms over her chest. "You just got back from London a month ago. Besides, I thought they were going to give you some time off after the memorial."

I shrugged. "They want me to conference with a new client," I offered. "I guess it couldn't wait."

"I just wonder about your job," she sighed. "It seems like you're barely home anymore."

"It's actually a good thing," I argued quietly. "It's nice that my bosses trust me."

She nodded, walking into the room and sitting cross-legged on my bed. "Where to this time?"

"Vienna," I replied with a smile. "You want me to bring you back some skis and a waltz?"

She smiled. "Please."

I sat beside her. "Francie, I feel like I'm letting you down sometimes."

"Oh, Syd," she answered, looping an arm over my shoulders and pulling me into a hug. "You don't let me down. I shouldn't complain about things like this. I know that you like your job."

I shook my head. "My job is a means to an end," I corrected. "I'll like my job when I'm in a classroom talking about books."

She nodded. "I just don't like to see you spreading yourself so thinly," she pointed out. "You really ought to take some time to relax more often."

"I'll tell you what," I began, "I'll ask my boss if I can have some time off in the next few weeks, and we'll go somewhere."

"Okay," she replied, standing. "I've got to go to work early, so I probably won't see you again before you leave."

"Call my cell if you need me for anything," I offered. "See you in a few days."

***

My father was waiting for me at the airport. I smiled and went to hug him quickly. "Hi," I greeted. "I haven't seen you in a while."

"I've been busy," he replied, smiling back. "There are some changes to the mission."

"What kind of changes?" I asked, falling into step with him as we approached the gate.

"I won't be going along with you on the mission," he answered.

My brow furrowed. "Why not?"

He cleared his throat, and I immediately felt more nervous. He only acted like this when he had something to tell me that he wasn't sure I would like. He took my arm and pulled me toward a bench, pulling out his transmission-blocking pen. "Sydney, there are going to be some major changes with your SD-6 and CIA operations," he began.

"I don't understand," I responded, searching his face for some sort of clue as to what was happening.

"Dixon is being replaced, but not by SD-6," he answered. "Sloane put me in charge of the recruitment, and I've taken the opportunity..."

"Dad, seriously, what's going on?" I pressed, and his eyes suddenly fixed on a spot beyond me.

I turned to see Michael Vaughn strolling down the long corridor, sunlight from the skylights illuminating his face and glinting off his hair. He pulled a small suitcase behind him, and an overcoat was draped over his arm.

"What is this...?" I began again, and Dad suddenly snapped the pen shut.

"Agent Vaughn," he greeted warmly, and Vaughn smiled, reaching out and shaking his hand.

"Good to see you again, Jack," Vaughn answered confidently. "And you...you must be Sydney." He held his hand out toward me.

I could feel my eyes widening as I took his hand and shook it quickly. "It's good to meet you," I replied lamely, unsure of what exactly I was supposed to say about this.

"You, too," he replied calmly, flashing me a million-dollar grin that I'd seen very rarely in our work together. "It really is a privilege to be working with you."

"Oh, no, the pleasure's all mine," I responded mechanically, then immediately wished to have the words back. I could almost feel myself blushing, and in front of my father, of all people.

"You've both been briefed on the mission," my father said quickly, giving Vaughn a succinct look. "Good luck in Vienna. Contact me if you have any further questions."

"I'm sure we'll be fine," Vaughn reassured him. What the hell did he think he was doing? I could have wrung his neck right there, in front of the entire airport. "Thank you."

Dad reached in to hug me before leaving, and I nearly stepped backwards, I was so surprised. Only when I felt him press the pen into my palm did I realize what he was doing. I hugged him back quickly, then watched him walk away calmly.

"Our plane boards in half an hour," Vaughn began calmly, and I fought to keep my expression placid. "I'd like to get to know a little bit about you before we go."

He began walking, and I fell into step beside him. "What exactly did you have in mind?" I replied, my voice tight.

He shot me a look that carried with it the slightest of warnings. "Oh, just the basics. I find that missions go a little more smoothly when the agents are familiar with each other's work."

"Ah, my work," I said softly, glancing around. "I've been with the Agency for three years now. I finished college, and then I decided that the Agency provided some interesting job opportunities, so I joined."

He glared at me. "Is that so?"

"That's so," I continued, feeling more and more brazen as I spoke. "In fact, I've heard that they have a wonderful assassin program, and I'm thinking of signing up. You know, field missions are only interesting for a limited amount of time."

"I would assume so," he replied with a clenched jaw.

"Is this your first field mission?"

"No," he replied shortly, stopping at a water fountain and bending to take a drink.

I clicked my tongue. "That's too bad. I think Vienna's going to be a tough job; I hope you'll be able to keep up with me."

"I'm confident that I can," he answered coolly. I began to feel frustrated that he wasn't getting angry. I wanted him to be as angry with me as I was with him.

"We'll see," I countered, stepping in front of him.

I felt his fingers wrap around my upper arm, gently enough that it wouldn't look suspicious but firmly enough that I knew he meant business. "Come with me," he growled in my ear. "Our gate is this way."

He pulled me into a corridor, pretending to fish around in his carry-on for his cell phone. Shocking the hell out of me, he reached into my pocket and pulled out the pen, flipping it on. We were far enough out of the way that we could talk quietly, but near enough to the main walkways that it didn't look suspicious. "Listen to me," he hissed. "I don't care if you want to be a brat about this, but there's nothing we can do to change it. This wasn't my idea, and I'll be damned if you get me killed because you don't want me here. Understand?"

Retrieving the phone, he held it out toward me as if I had asked for it, and I snatched it. "I'm not being a brat."

"Oh, no?" he asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Why didn't anyone tell me about this?" I replied angrily. "Don't you think I had the right to know?"

"I don't know why they wouldn't let me tell you," he answered, not looking up at me. "They were very clear that I shouldn't mention it."

Element of surprise, probably, but I wasn't going to tell him that. My father probably wanted to make sure I didn't let anything slip, not that I would have. I made a mental note to conference with him on this later. "I just don't even understand how the hell something like this could happen," I shot back.

"They wanted a new double," he murmured, taking the phone back from me. "Would you rather it have been a stranger?"

I stared at the floor for a long moment. "No."

"Well, then, quit acting like you're acting," he answered harshly, shoving the phone back into his bag.

I took a deep breath. "I'm sorry."

"That's fine," he responded. "It's okay. Just...we're going to have to make this work."

I nodded. "Wait...who's going to be---?"

"Weiss," he finished. "We're going to take turns meeting with him. And you're going to fill me in on everything that Jack didn't."

"How much do you know, exactly?" I replied quizzically.

He steered me back out into the airport crowd. "The basics."

I nodded, thoughts swimming around in my head. "Okay, then. Okay." I took a deep breath. "I'm still angry that you didn't tell me."

"That's okay," he responded. "You can be angry."

"Well, at least you can look at me in public now," I murmured, and he glanced at me for a long moment before looking away, an unfamiliar expression on his face.

"I guess so," he replied softly before getting into the baggage check line.

***

We boarded the plane with no problems, and fifteen minutes later we were taking off. "Ever been to Vienna?" I asked quietly.

He looked over at me, raising an eyebrow. "No, actually."

"Me, neither," I murmured, leaning back in my seat. "First for both of us."

"Yeah," he answered shortly, rummaging around in his bag. I suppressed a grin when he pulled out a chocolate bar.

"Hungry?" I teased.

"Starved," he replied. "Aren't you?"

"I ate before I came. I can't stand airport food," I offered, fidgeting slightly.

"That's why I brought my own," he answered, unwrapping the candy bar and taking a bite.

I looked around the cabin of the plane. A family with a tiny baby was sitting next to me, speaking rapid German. An older couple sat in front of us, and a businesswoman who was typing furiously on her laptop sat next to them. We sat alone in our aisle, our backs to the bathroom wall so that we'd be able to talk inconspicuously; at least, that's the way Vaughn explained it. For the first time, I wondered what it looked like, the two of us sitting together. Did people assume that we were a couple, maybe married? I didn't know what to do with that thought, so I pushed it aside.

Sighing, I accepted a can of ginger ale from a flight attendant, who then passed a can of cola to Vaughn. I took the square napkin the attendant had given me and scribbled on it with my pen: _When was this all decided?_ I passed it to Vaughn.

He raised an eyebrow, reaching into his jacket pocket for his pen, the Kings pen. He scratched a message on the napkin, tearing it a little with the pen, then pushed it back over to me. _Two weeks ago. They wouldn't let me tell you, Syd._

I made a "hm" sound and crumpled the napkin, stuffing it in my purse. The in-flight movie began, and I put on my headphones, not looking at him. I sipped my ginger ale slowly as the credits ran.

He shifted, folding his arms over his chest, and put on his own headphones. He adjusted the settings, and I wondered what language he was listening in. Dixon used to listen to some in-flight movies in Farsi; I could barely ask where the restroom was in Farsi. I slid my headphones off my ears, letting them dangle around my neck like a necklace, and took his off of his ears. He gave me a confused and mildly annoyed look as I settled his phones on my ears. I was right: French.

"What's your problem?" he asked. "Are yours broken?"

"No," I replied calmly, taking the phones off and handing them back to him. "Mine are just fine. I wondered about something."

"Done wondering?"

"Yes, thank you." I readjusted my headphones on my ears.

He readjusted his, too, and leaned back, downing the rest of his soda. He stared out the window, finally shutting the shade with a snap. He pulled off his headphones, then took mine off as well, and then grabbed the signal-jamming pen again. "Look," he murmured, leaning closer to me, "we have to get along. We don't have to like it, but we have to get along or we're both dead. Literally."

"I know that," I whispered. He smelled wonderful, just like I remembered from London. "I'm surprised, Vaughn. I'm shocked."

"You're allowed," he agreed. "But you're only allowed to be shocked until we get off the plane in a few hours."

"I don't remember reading that in the CIA handbook," I shot back quietly, surprised at the sharpness of my tongue.

He winced. "Sydney..."

"Sorry," I breathed. "I didn't mean that."

"There are lots of rules that aren't in the handbook," he said abruptly. "Implied rules."

"Mores," I finished for him, looking over at him to gauge his reaction. "Specific ways of doing things in one's society."

"It's been a long time since I took a sociology class."

"I like sociology. Mores are implied rules," I continued. "They aren't in the handbook."

"Most of what we do isn't in the book," he added. "Our jobs are unique, even in the Agency. You know that, right? We don't have a lot of doubles, all things considered."

"I didn't know, but I figured."

"We're sort of making this up as we go along," he murmured, and I gave him a startled look.

"None of this is planned?" I asked, raising an eyebrow. "You're not serious..."

"No, most of it is planned to a degree," he amended. "But we can't plan a mission the way that we can plan a meeting."

"I guess not," I conceded. "So how much of this are we actually making up?"

"A good thirty-five, forty percent," he replied mildly, and suddenly he was my Vaughn again, not this stranger who had agreed for reasons God only knows to become a double. _No one should agree to this life_, I thought. _This sort of thing is supposed to be foisted on you, and for some reason, he just agreed to it_. It didn't make much sense.

"Hello? You still here?" he asked, breaking my train of thought.

"Huh?" I began inelegantly, then added, "no, I'm listening. Forty percent?"

"It's an estimate."

"So if there aren't any rules, how do we know what's acceptable and unacceptable?" I broached, and he shrugged.

"Your mores, basically. Nothing's written. It's understood." He sat back, as if considering his next words carefully. "There are some rules you follow in almost any situation. You know, the Constitution, the Geneva Convention."

"Rules of engagement," I mused. "You know, I can't ever remember consulting my copy of those before a mission."

"That's because this isn't most of the time," he theorized. "This is an exception. An aberration in the rules. The Geneva Convention, the rules of engagement...they wouldn't necessarily apply to what you do."

"To what _we_ do," I corrected softly, and his expression changed.

"What we do," he repeated. He sighed. "Sydney, I'm sorry that you didn't know."

"Don't worry about it," I said, waving my hand in the air as if to erase his words. "It's done."

"Thank you," he replied.

"So if we don't have any rules of engagement in our situation, does that mean we get to make our own?" I asked, letting a hint of levity creep into my voice.

He smiled slowly. "I guess so. Any ideas?"

"Rule number one: ignore me when I'm like this, because I'm not actually angry with _you_," I began, watching his smile widen. "I'm not really angry with anyone, I think. I'm just angry."

"Rule number two," he added, his green eyes sparkling, "be patient with me, because I've done field work before, but nothing like this."

"Rule number three," I continued, "be patient with me, because I tend to mess up on occasion."

"Rule number four," he countered, "stop being so hard on yourself."

I searched his face for some clue as to what he was thinking. "I don't know how this is going to work. The two of us working together like this, I mean. We're going to have to be so careful, Vaughn..."

He nodded, turning his eyes back to the movie screen. "You can put your headphones back on now...you don't want to miss the movie."

"Okay," I replied, a half-smile playing across my lips.

I put on the headphones and pretended to watch the movie until it was over, then fell asleep on his shoulder for the duration of the flight.

**End Chapter Five**


	6. Chapter Six

Title: Rules of Engagement (6/?)  
Author: Bella   
E-mail: bella_lumina@yahoo.com   
Site: http://www.fragmentary-blue.com/bella/   
Rating: PG-13   
Spoilers: Up to and including "The Coup"...will go AU after that.   
Category: Sydney/Vaughn   
Disclaimer: The characters (except Philip Holmes) aren't mine.   
Notes: Thank you to Cassandra and to Abs for the fabulous beta-readings.   
  
*** 

I was scared out of my wits. Somehow I had ended up sitting in the back of a windowless van, listening to Sydney breath slowly over her microphone. _Dixon used to sit in a seat like this_, I reminded myself. I had to be incredibly careful; I wasn't at all sure that I hadn't gotten in over my head.

"You okay?" her soft voice asked over the earpiece, and I smiled.

"I'm just great," I replied smoothly. "You're the one that we're concerned about. What's going on?"

The van driver, Georges, one of SD-6's international employees, handed me a printout. I had no idea what it was supposed to say, and he sighed when I shook my head.

"Codes," he hissed. "These are the codes to the safe."

"Right, right," I replied. "Syd, we have the safe codes."

"That's important," she said lightly. "Wait...someone's coming."

I heard her speaking rapid German, then equally rapid French to someone nearby. Her dialect wasn't the same as mine; hers was the basic French that an American could learn in high school or college. It was grammatically flawless, but her accent was just a little off; I made a mental note to ask her about it later.

"Okay," she breathed a few moments later. "What are the safe codes?"

"Four," I began slowly. "Two. Six. Seven. Zero. Eight."

"Don't read them so slowly next time," she instructed. "Wastes time."

"Don't you have to memorize them?"

"I memorized them," she replied. "Four-two-six-seven-zero-eight. Easy as pie. You've got the security feeds blocked?"

"You're good to go, Syd," I answered confidently. "I'm here."

There was a strange silence on the other end, and I immediately questioned my words. "I know, Vaughn," she finally responded softly. "Okay, I'm at the safe. I'm going to go radio silent for two minutes, starting...now."

The microphone switched off, and I leaned back, sighing. "You do this often, Georges?"

"Twice a week," he replied gruffly. "Or whenever they need me."

I nodded thoughtfully. "I'm new...I've worked in intelligence for a few years, but it was a desk job. This is my first major field mission."

"No offense, but I can tell," he replied, rummaging around in the passenger seat for a spiral-bound notebook, which he handed me. "Here."

I took it from him, examining the worn cover. "What's this?"

"Give it to Bristow," he directed. "She'll know what to do with it. Tell her that Sloane expects a call after the mission."

I'd almost forgotten about Sloane. I began to wonder what Jack had told him about me. "I will. Thank you."

Georges smirked, lighting a cigarette and taking a long drag off of it. "You're not supposed to thank me. I'm doing my job."

I nodded slowly, looking longingly at the cigarette. I'd smoked all through college -- both my parents had always smoked -- and I had only quit after I went to work at the Agency. When I was nervous I still sometimes craved them, and I was definitely nervous. "Right."

A few seconds later the speaker in my ear hissed to life, and Sydney whispered, "I've got the chip. I'm on my way out. Tell Georges to have the van running."

"It's done," I replied. "Everything okay?"

"Went perfectly," she answered. I sneaked a glance at Georges, who was paying very little attention to the conversation. Her missions were actually a little easier now; all she had to do in the house was retrieve the chip. We could switch it with a CIA replica later. "How are you doing?"

"Fine," I assured her, watching on the monitors as she slinked out of the house unnoticed. "Good job, Syd...you're almost here."

A few moments later she had slipped in through the back door of the van, her breathing only slightly faster than normal, and we were on our way. She pressed the microchip that she'd been instructed to retrieve into my palm, curling my fingers around it before letting go of my hand. She didn't look in my direction as she sat on the chair beside me and reached down to unbuckle the unbelievably tall, spiked heels she'd worn into the house. Her toes wiggled happily as she tossed the shoes aside. I saw her shiver imperceptibly as she reached for another pair of shoes, and I shrugged off my jacket and tossed it to her.

"Thanks," she replied quickly, pulling the coat on over the slinky red dress she wore. "It's starting to rain, and it's getting really chilly."

I nodded. "It's supposed to rain all night."

"Lovely," she said, sighing. "Is this the book?" She picked up the worn notebook and examined it.

"I think so," I replied, frowning. "Georges said you're supposed to call Sloane when we get to the hotel."

She nodded. "It's standard, Vaughn. I'll explain..."

Opening the notebook, she produced a page with a hastily scribbled address, room numbers, and two keys. "He always has the techs send the hotel stuff along with the drivers when the mission is more than one night. It's easier that way." She flipped to the back of the notebook and showed me a pair of airline tickets stapled to the back cover.

"Ah," I responded. "Makes much more sense."

She gave me a sympathetic smile. "I know you're just being thrown into this."

"It's okay, it's okay," I assured her. "I was honored that your father thought I would be capable of something like this. I think I'm going to enjoy working with you."

Her eyes darkened. "Thank you."

Georges pulled the van up to the back entrance of our hotel ten minutes later, and she retrieved all of the case information, shoving it in a black bag and handing it to me. "Ready?" she asked, and I nodded. "See you later, Georges."

"Nice to see you again, Sydney," he called out, not turning around.

She grabbed my hand as soon as we were out of Georges's view, her skin cool against mine. "I don't like Vienna," she said darkly. "That party was terrible."

I wasn't sure how to reply. "You finished the job, that's all that matters," I murmured.

She nodded. "I guess so."

We climbed a few flights of stairs before arriving on the fourth floor. "Yours is four-fourteen, and mine is four-eleven," she said, grabbing the keys and handing one to me. "I'm going to take a shower, and then I need to call Sloane. Do you want to grab something to eat later?"

This was surreal. "Sure. Call me when you're ready. I'm going to grab a quick shower, too."

She pressed her lips together in thought. "I'll call you before I call Sloane."

"Okay," I answered, realizing that I was still holding her hand. I gave it a brief squeeze before heading to my own room.

***

"Who is it?"

"It's Vaughn."

"Hang on," her voice came softly through the door. I heard the sounds of locks being unfastened, and then she opened the door slowly. She was wearing a battered USC sweatshirt and a pair of plaid flannel pajama pants, her hair still damp from her shower. "Hey." She stood aside so I could walk past her, and I did.

"Call Sloane yet?" I asked, shoving my hands in my pants pockets and walking through the room. "This room is completely different from mine."

"I haven't called him yet," she answered, locking the door behind us and standing in front of it, looking at me. "I'll probably call my dad first, and I figured you'd want to talk to him."

She had no idea how untrue that was, but I didn't say it. "That's probably a good idea."

"Yeah." She padded over to one of the beds in her bare feet, pulling her sleeves down over her hands. "God, this is so weird."

I nodded. It definitely was. "Listen, Syd, I know you've probably got a million questions about--"

"Why did you do this?" she asked abruptly, looking up at me.

I wasn't sure what to say. "What do you mean?"

She cleared her throat. "I mean, why did you agree to do this?"

"I...I don't know. Devlin asked me, and I thought about it, and I said yes," I stammered, sitting down on the other bed, running a hand through my messy hair.

"So you thought about it?" she pressed, drawing her knees up to her chin.

"I guess so," I replied. "Why?"

"Because," she answered. "Because people don't just agree to be double agents. I didn't just agree to be a double agent."

I frowned at her. "You did, actually."

She shook her head. "No, I found out something horrible about the people I work for, and I knew that I had to help fix that problem. It wasn't even a question. It was...I was pretty much...forced into it by circumstance."

"Well, if you think about it, so was I," I argued.

"How do you figure that?"

"My friend lost someone who was very close to her, who also happened to be her closest friend at work. If I didn't step up to replace him, he could have been replaced by someone like Haladki or someone she didn't know. I didn't want that to happen to her," I answered smoothly, watching her swallow slightly. "So, if you think about it, I was forced into this by circumstance, too."

She opened her mouth slightly. "Vaughn..."

Before she could continue, the phone rang, and she picked it up, murmuring, "Hello?" She paused. "Thank you...just send them up with housekeeping, that'll be fine." She set the phone back in its cradle. "Front desk. I wanted more towels. Did they only give you one?"

"No," I replied, looking around. "Seriously, my room is huge. You got ripped off."

She smiled. "I think they're trying to impress you. SD-6 pretty much runs this place."

"Really?"

"Really. There's a hotel like this in almost every major city around the world. Tokyo, Rome, Paris...I think there's even one in New Delhi," she answered, leaning back against the headboard of her bed. "A safe way to house agents and a way to make money off tourists."

"Ingenious," I replied. "And the CIA knows about these?"

"My father should have told them," she said, her forehead wrinkling in confusion. "He was instrumental in setting a few of the new ones up this year."

"Surveillance?" I asked suddenly, sweeping the room quickly with my eyes.

"My father set them up, remember?" she replied. "There is surveillance in some rooms, but not all. Never on the fourth floor; we're always on the fourth floor."

"Okay," I answered, feeling my pulse slow to normal again. "Okay."

"It's okay," she soothed, sighing. "We ought to call..."

"Call your father first," I urged. "Just to make sure."

She nodded, her eyes locking with mine as she dialed a long, complicated number. She held the phone tightly. "Hello, Dad?" she asked suddenly. "It's me...yeah, everything's fine. We've got it." Pausing, she looked up at me. "He's right here. Do you want to talk to him?...okay."

I took the phone from her outstretched hand. "Hi."

"I take it things went well," he began flatly, and I swallowed.

"Things went fine. She's got the chip. We're all alive." I saw Sydney flinch imperceptibly and immediately wished that I could erase those words.

"Good," he said. "Switch the chip on the plane back to LA. When you get to the airport, drop it in the trash can next to gate 23C. Got that?"

"Got it," I answered carefully.

Jack cleared his throat. "I'm not going to ask you why you're in her room. I'm just going to remind you that you're at an incredible risk in this job. Don't do anything to risk the operation or Sydney." I noted that he didn't worry about my risk, but figured that was typical.

"Thank you," I said automatically. "I'm handing the phone back to your daughter."

"You do that," he replied.

I gave her the phone, and she said the requisite good-byes before hanging up. "Okay...Sloane."

"He won't want to talk to me, will he?"

"Probably not," she assured. "This is usually a quick call."

She dialed and spoke to him, finishing the conversation in less than two minutes. "Emily's really declining," she murmured after she'd hung up. "They're giving her a month, tops."

"Sloane's wife, right? The one that you're friends with?"

"Yeah," she said, smiling weakly. I could almost see her mentally tallying lost loved ones. "If you're hungry, you could order from room service. I'm not really hungry anymore."

"You sure?"

She nodded. "Positive."

I studied her face. "Listen, I think you should get some sleep. Call my room if you need me, okay?"

"Okay," she murmured, leaning back against her pillows and yawning.

"You've had a rough day," I whispered as I stood and draped the covers over her. "Sleep well." I sort of awkwardly patted her arm, unsure of what to do. She reached for my hand and grasped it tightly before letting me go.

"See you in the morning," she replied.

I turned the lights out as I left the room.

***

I could feel Sydney tense as we rode the elevator to the main offices at Credit Dauphine. She looked over at me, nodding reassuringly, and I returned the gesture. We didn't speak; we couldn't, not here.

The elevator doors opened into a white room with a red security scanner, then onto the strange-yet-familiar SD-6 offices. I'd seen them before, but only over fuzzy security monitors. I scanned the area quickly, walking in step with Sydney.

"Syd, Sloane wants to see you," a short, square-faced man commented as she walked in. He glanced over at me, then back to her. "This...this is the new guy?"

"Marshall, this is Michael Vaughn," she introduced, and I realized vaguely that it was the first time she'd ever called me by my first name. "Agent Vaughn, this is Marshall Flinkman, our resident technology expert." She smiled at him, and he beamed. "He's sort of our answer to Q."

"I'm not sure...that I'd say that," he replied, attempting modesty and achieving comedy. "Anyway, you know, briefing. I'm sure that Sloane wants to see Agent Vaughn, too."

"Ready to meet the boss?" she asked brightly, giving me a smile that didn't look forced at all.

"I'm ready," I confirmed. "It's nice to meet you, Marshall."

"Thank you," he replied absently, his eyes still on Sydney. Someone had a crush...

"Okay, this is my desk," she began, glancing up at me. "I'm not sure where they'll put you yet." She sighed. "We'd better go meet with Sloane."

"Okay," I agreed.

We walked through a set of glass doors into a sparsely furnished conference room. The architecture of the place was more impressive than I had remembered. Glass, steel, and wires were everywhere. It was quite a contrast to the CIA offices.

He sat in a chair on the far end of the table, his fingers folded in front of him as if he were praying. I was raised as a Catholic, and my mother would sit the same way while she prayed the rosary. It was not at all how I expected the menacing head of SD-6 to be. Could this be the same man who had ordered Sydney's fiancé's murder? 

"Morning, Sloane," Sydney greeted warmly, touching him lightly on the shoulder as she passed. "Is Emily..."

"She's about the same," he said with a resigned smile. "Comfortable at home. I'll tell her you asked."

"I'd like to stop by and see her if she's feeling up to it," Sydney continued.

Sloane nodded paternally. "I'll ask her this afternoon."

"Good," Sydney replied, glancing over to me. "Sloane, this is..."

"Michael Vaughn," Sloane finished, standing and extending a hand. I wondered wildly if it was the hand with the previously severed finger. I plastered a smile on my face and shook his hand.

"That would be me," I replied. "It's good to finally meet you."

"Jack Bristow has told me much about you," he offered, easing back into his chair. "Your record is impeccable."

I should have hoped so; Jack and I had spent an entire afternoon compiling the information. "Thank you."

"So, all signs say that the Austrian mission went well," he said, smiling at the two of us. "Any problems I should be aware of?"

"You're spoiling the new recruit with the better hotel rooms," Sydney joked, and Sloane grinned. He looked like a father figure, not a killer.

"Now, Sydney, you know that you need to take that up with your father," he admonished, and she smiled.

"Speaking of my father, where is he today?"

"He's on business in New York," Sloane explained. "He's left me copies of your Vienna report." He turned to me. "Can I ask you a few questions, Mr. Vaughn? I don't want it to seem like I'm prying."

"That would be fine," I replied coolly, sitting down across the table from Sydney.

"You've been with the CIA for some time?"

"Since I graduated from law school, yes," I answered. "I worked a desk job. A few field missions, not many."

"Ah, a lawyer," Sloane smiled. "May I ask where you graduated from?"

"UCLA, same place I got my bachelor's degree," I replied.

Sloane nodded sagely. "Good school."

"I enjoyed it very much."

"You speak several languages?" he continued.

I glanced at Sydney, who was watching the conversation intently. "Several. French, English, Spanish, Italian and a little Portuguese." Actually, I also spoke Greek, but I'd never told the CIA about that one, either. I'd made a conscious decision to keep that a secret when I joined the Agency; I wanted something to be unknown in case I needed it someday.

"Usted gozó de Austria?" he inquired.

"Sí, mucho." I paused. "Por supuesto, el español no sería útil allí."

"Es verdad," he replied, the corners of his mouth quirking into a strange smile. "Deutsch könnte nützlicher sein."

"Nur wenn man Deutsch spricht," Sydney interrupted. "And apparently, Agent Vaughn does not."

"Speak German?" I asked, and she nodded. "No, not even a little."

"Peut-être français est plus approprié," she offered, and I grinned.

"Le plus certainement," I replied, and she smiled back slowly.

"A team downstairs is analyzing the chip," Sloane said, changing the subject abruptly. "Excellent job, both of you. You're on your way to proving yourself, Agent Vaughn."

I nodded. "Thank you. I hope so."

"Yes," Sloane finished. "You worked well together?"

Sydney shrugged. "No problems so far."

"Good," Sloane decided, nodding. "I'd like you to get to know each other a little better, make things run a little smoother." He paused. "Perhaps you could go out to dinner, have an opportunity to talk a little more."

Our eyes met briefly, and she nodded. "If you're willing, then I'm okay with it."

"Okay," I replied. "It might help to know what makes Sydney Bristow tick."

She smiled carefully, turning to Sloane. "I'm going to work on the Vienna follow-up, if we're finished..."

Sloane nodded. "Yes, sure...Vaughn, I'll have someone show you to your desk."

I let Sydney lead the way out of the office, trying to ignore the chill that involuntarily ran down my spine when Sloane smiled at her.

****

End of Chapter Six 


	7. Chapter Seven

Title: Rules of Engagement (7/?)  
Author: Bella   
E-mail: bella_lumina@yahoo.com   
Site: http://www.fragmentary-blue.com/bella/   
Rating: PG-13   
Spoilers: Up to and including "The Coup"...will go AU after that.   
Category: Sydney/Vaughn   
Disclaimer: The characters (except Philip Holmes) aren't mine.   
Notes: Thank you to Cassandra and to Abs for the fabulous beta-readings.  
  
*** 

I was nervous and I wasn't sure why. I'd decided to wear a new red dress that I'd been hiding in the back of my closet for a special occasion. I'd fixed my hair the same way I'd worn it when Will and I went to dinner at Emily's. I hadn't done that because Vaughn had told me then how pretty I looked. No, I definitely hadn't.

"So, how come I haven't met this guy before?" Francie wheedled as I packed my purse.

I didn't look up at her. "He's new at work, and my boss suggested I take him out to dinner. You know, a get-to-know you kind of thing."

"Just you?" she asked, wrinkling her forehead.

I nodded. "He's going to be the new international finance guy. He worked for another bank for a while, but now he's with us. He's...he's taking over for Dixon."

"Oh..." Francie breathed. "Oh, I'm sorry."

"Fran, seriously, you didn't know," I replied, giving her an admonishing look. "It's okay."

She stood behind me in silence for a long moment before continuing, "Is he cute?"

I opened my mouth, then closed it again. "Yeah..." I drawled, letting a giddy smile spread over my face.

Francie squealed. "Ooh...new cute work guy, taking you out to dinner..."

"Stop it," I commanded with a smile. "You're going to make me feel all funny...and besides, this is a work thing."

"Yeah, it's a work thing all right," she replied, a goofy grin spreading over her face. She danced out of the room, sing-songing, "Cute guy from work..."

I sighed. Yeah, this definitely wasn't going to be awkward.

Ten minutes later he knocked twice at the door. A nice, steady knock, I noted. Francie peeked out the window, looked back in, and raised her eyebrows mile-high. "Holy cow," she mouthed.

I hissed, "Stop it!" I walked to the door, and opened it with a bright smile on my face.

He stood casually at the door with his hands in his pockets; he beamed at me when I opened the door. "Hi," he began, and I swore that I could detect the tiniest tremor in his voice.

"Hi," I replied. "So, this is my apartment." I made a sweeping gesture, and he walked in. I closed the door behind him with a soft click.

"Nice place," he admired. He looked amazing: tousled hair, tailored suit, tantalizing gray-green eyes.

"We like it," she offered. "Vaughn, this is my roommate, Francie. Francie, this is Michael Vaughn from work."

Francie's eyes lit up as she shook Vaughn's extended hand. "Nice to meet you."

"Likewise," he replied succinctly, giving Francie a warm smile.

"So, have a good time, don't be out too late," Francie advised, her eyes still locked on Vaughn. Really, it was quite humorous. "And, you know, don't do anything I wouldn't do."

I fought to keep myself from blushing. "For God's sake, Francie, it's a business dinner."

"I know, I know," she replied. "But, you know, anyway..."

"Right," I answered with a wary smile. "See you when I get home."

"I'll be here," she called, walking toward the kitchen.

We walked outside; he closed the door behind us. "I think Francie was ready to keep you," I commented mildly.

He laughed softly as we walked to his sleek black car. "The ultimate compliment."

"Yeah," I replied quietly, noting that he opened the passenger's door for me. "So, Agent Vaughn, where will we be eating this evening?"

"I made reservations at an Italian place," he answered, climbing into the driver's seat and shutting the door. "I figured I couldn't go wrong with Italian."

I held up a finger, carefully sweeping a hand under the dashboard and coming up empty-handed. "Did you...?"

"It's okay," he assured me. "I checked it out before I came. Your father gave me a detector. I'm not sure exactly how it works, but it works, anyway."

"Did you find anything?"

"Yeah," he replied. "A nickel hidden under one of the floor mats...it's weird."

"Get used to it," I sighed. He reached an arm behind my seat as he pulled out of the driveway, barely brushing my bare shoulder.

"Sorry," he murmured, and I shook my head.

"It's...it's okay," I replied quietly, looking anywhere but him. "So, you like Italian food?"

"I do," he confirmed, fiddling with the air conditioner as they drove down the street. "I have yet to find a person who doesn't like pasta."

"Really? Will hates pasta."

"That's unusual," he replied coolly. "Well, now I've found one person."

"Yeah," I answered, squirming slightly in my seat. "Listen, you're okay, right? After all of this?"

"Yeah, yeah," he reassured me. "I mean, it's weird, but it's okay."

"Because, you know, if you ever need--"

"I know," he finished, giving me a wan smile. "So, I'm supposed to get to know you tonight, huh?"

"Yeah," I agreed. "Have any pressing questions?"

He'd obviously been thinking about something, because he answered almost instantaneously. "Why did you join?"

"What?" I asked, caught off guard by the question.

He tapped the steering wheel as we stopped at a red light. "SD-6. Why did you join?"

"I..." I began, twisting my hands together. "God, I don't know. It seemed exciting...I didn't have a lot of friends then, Vaughn. I had Francie, and that was it..."

"That wasn't enough?"

I turned in the seat to look at him. "It was a long time ago. I was very, very different from who I am now. You probably wouldn't even recognize me."

He gave me a look. "I seriously doubt that."

"I was this naive little girl. And...I thought I was CIA, Vaughn. I never had any idea," I continued softly. The light turned green, and I whispered, "Green."

"Huh?" he asked, turning his attention back to the road. He laughed softly under his breath and accelerated, ignoring the obscene gestures from those who passed him.

"What did you think of everything today?" I asked softly, leaning sideways against the back of my seat so I could watch his face.

He shrugged. "It was...it wasn't how I was expecting it," he phrased carefully. "To be quite honest, Sloane wasn't very scary..."

"That's the problem," I grumbled. "He's not really that scary until he does something awful. No wonder everyone at SD-6 feels so secure about their jobs."

He nodded. "I can see that." He looked around as he pulled into the lot at the restaurant. "I'm not going to valet the car...after this afternoon I don't want anyone else in my car."

"We'll have to sweep it again after we leave...do you have the detector?"

"It's in my jacket pocket," he replied, grinning. "I came prepared."

I shook my head at him, grinning as we got out of the car. "So, is this the place?"

"Yeah," he replied, sounding different, and I suddenly remembered that we were acting again. "It's good. My mother loves this place."

Now I was unsettled, because I had just started to figure out all of Vaughn's little idiosyncrasies; I didn't want to have to separate fact from fiction.

"Tell me the truth tonight," I said softly, falling into step beside him

There was an almost imperceptible change in his body language. "Okay."

"Okay."

***

"Favorite food?"

He chewed slowly, considering the question. "Peanut butter, I think."

I laughed. "Peanut butter? Out of all the foods in the world, that's your favorite?"

"It's reliable," he argued. "I mean, gourmet stuff is great." He pointed to the linguini on his plate with his fork. "But at the end of the day, you know that peanut butter is always going to be at home in the fridge. And, you know, it's versatile. Peanut butter and crackers. Peanut butter and jelly."

I chuckled. "Peanut butter and bananas."

He wrinkled his nose. "Now, let's not be unreasonable..."

"Okay, okay. Sorry. Favorite city?"

"Wait, wait...I didn't get to ask you what your favorite food was," he countered, twirling more pasta around his fork.

I gave him a look that urged him to continue, raising my eyebrows. "So...?"

"What's your favorite food?" he finally asked, and for some reason it was hilarious. We started laughing, and laughed until other customers started staring at us, and even then we still snickered quietly over our dinner plates.

"Quiche," I answered once I could catch my breath.

"Really?"

"Yeah...my mom made great quiche," I added, suddenly wishing I could erase my words.

He didn't even flinch. "Your mother's dead?"

"Yeah...how'd you know?" I asked, locking eyes with him.

His expression was unreadable. "You used the past tense. She 'made' quiche."

"She died when I was six," I answered. "In a car accident. It was a long time ago."

"My mother's alive...my father isn't," he said softly, nodding. "I was eight...he was killed at work."

That was an understatement. How was he keeping his composure so well? "I'm sorry," I replied genuinely, trying to keep the emotion out of my voice.

He waved it away with a hand. "Don't worry about it. That was a long time ago, too." He paused, grabbing his water glass and taking a long drink. "So, you like quiche?"

"Maybe not as much as you like peanut butter, but yeah, I do," I answered, smiling at his exasperated expression. "So, what _is_ your favorite city?"

"Paris," he answered without hesitation, and the tone of voice told me it was definitely the truth. "My grandparents live in Paris."

"It is a beautiful city," I acquiesced.

He shook his head. "Not all of it. And the people aren't always nice. But it's alive, you know? You've been there. It's like it has a pulse under the streets."

I watched him carefully. "I haven't been there for a long time except on bank business."

"You ought to go on your own time," he advised, meeting my eyes. "It's wonderful."

"No wonder you speak French so well," I remarked, and he shrugged.

"I was born in France. My father was American, my mother is French. Well, was. She's American now," he answered.

"How did they meet?" I asked, laying my fork down. He was right, the food had been wonderful. My fettucini had disappeared quickly.

"He worked for the government," Vaughn said carefully. "He was overseas on assignment in the sixties, and he met my mother. She was waiting tables in a cafe in Paris...he went in to ask for directions and ended up taking her out to dinner. They got married, and they had me, and the rest is history."

I smiled, looking down at my plate. "That's pretty amazing."

"I think so," he replied, smiling a soft, closed-lipped smile. "So, what's your favorite city, then?"

"I like Montreal. And Copenhagen is amazing. My favorite is probably Venice. It's gorgeous."

"Mm-hm," he agreed. "Favorite brand of toothpaste?"

I laughed. "What kind of question is that? And besides, it's not your turn..."

"Oh, come on...it's a perfectly good question."

"Fine...the green stuff with the gritty whitening things in it. I think it's Crest," I replied, laughing and shaking my head.

"Hm...interesting," he replied coolly, taking a sip of his water and smiling.

"Why? Do you use that stuff, too?"

"No, I use the blue minty stuff. I think it's Crest, though. So it's sort of the same."

I grinned. "Favorite ice cream?"

"Chocolate chip mint. You?"

"Chocolate fudge."

The waitress came by at that moment and smiled at us, putting the check on the table. Vaughn snagged it before I had the chance. "How was your meal?" she asked pleasantly.

"Enlightening," he replied, smiling at me as he reached for his wallet.

***

We cautiously swept the car for bugs again after leaving the restaurant. I didn't think to ask what happened to the nickel bug until we parked in front of my house.

He shrugged. "I gave it to your father."

"I was thinking about something else today," I began hesitantly.

"What?"

"You told Sloane that you'd been working for the CIA. You and my dad put that in your file?"

"Yeah," he replied, his forehead wrinkling in thought. "Why?"

"How would my dad know that you were CIA if he didn't have connections to the Agency?"

He paused. "Sloane and your father both have connections to the Agency. They both started their careers at Langley. You knew that, right?"

"Yeah," I confirmed. "But...?"

"It's part of your father's cover," he explained. "Sloane thinks he's a mole for SD-6. The Agency knows he's a mole for the CIA."

I considered this. "I should talk to him, shouldn't I?"

"It would probably be a good idea. Get everything cleared up, Syd."

I nodded. "So you two are buddy-buddy now, huh?"

He snorted. "I wouldn't say that. We have to work out the plans for this, though, so we're civil. Besides, he's your father, and you're my friend. That's got to count for something."

I beamed at him. "You've got all sorts of plans I don't know about, don't you?"

"Just a few," he said lightly, grinning at me. "I had a good time tonight."

"So did I," I replied softly. "It was so nice to just...to be able to talk to you."

"Well, Agent Bristow," he began, "it certainly was nice getting to know you." He extended a hand.

I took it. "Likewise."

He held my hand for a long moment before letting it go, looking toward my door. "I think we have an audience."

"Oh, God," I groaned. "She's like a rabid dog, Vaughn. It's not even funny."

He laughed. "It's okay...just go ahead. She'll think we're making out in the car."

A ripple ran through me at the thought. "I really should go. Thanks again."

"No problem. See you tomorrow."

I got out of the car, waving as I approached my front door. He waited until I'd gotten inside to drive away.

"Well?" Francie asked, pouncing immediately.

"Well what?" I replied, unwrapping my shawl from around my shoulders and laying it across the back of the couch. The lamplight was low in the room, making our neutral furniture glow.

"She wants to know how your date went," Will supplied, walking in from the kitchen with a bowl of ice cream. "Hi."

I smiled warmly at him. "Hey. It wasn't a date."

He lifted an eyebrow. "This one seems to think otherwise."

"Cute new guy from work? Tell me that's not a date," she pressed, flopping down on the couch.

I sat beside her, and Will scrunched in next to me: a friend sandwich. "It's not a date. It was a business dinner, Francie."

She waved my comments away with a hand. "Whatever you say."

"You wear red dresses to business dinners?" Will asked, offering me a spoonful. "Fudge."

I nodded, taking a bite. "Delicious. And yes, I am known to wear red to business functions."

"Mollye -- she's the British one from work, remember? -- Mollye would say that you're kidding yourself," he disagreed.

"You two are impossible."

Francie sighed. "You're just not seeing what's right in front of you."

"And what's that?"

"The incredibly cute guy from work," she reiterated.

"From work, Fran...from _work_," I emphasized. "Will, tell her that it's a bad idea to date people from work."

"Oh, that's definitely not a good idea," he replied. Francie glanced from him to me; I knew what she was thinking, and I didn't even want to go there. He must have caught it too, because he quickly added, "Personal experience."

"That's just because you're socially inept," Francie continued, ignoring Will's injured, "Hey!" She sighed. "Syd, if I were you, I'd be all over this possibility."

Will snickered. "I'll bet."

She smacked him. "All I'm saying is that you should consider it."

"He's my coworker," I said again. "Nothing's going to happen."

"We'll see," she said lightly.

I shook my head. "Sorry to be a bad host, but I'm beat. I'm gonna go to bed."

"Night," Will said, and Francie gave me a hug.

I went into my bedroom and just sat on the edge of the bed for a long while, staring at a spot on the wall. I wanted this man. God, just holding his hand completely turned me on...

__

This was not good, I decided. I had to do something about this...this _thing_ between us before it turned into something uncontrollable.

**End of Chapter Seven**


	8. Chapter Eight

Title: Rules of Engagement (8/?)  
Author: Bella   
E-mail: bella_lumina@yahoo.com   
Site: http://www.bellalumina.net/aliasfic/  
Rating: PG-13   
Timeline: Follows episode canon up to and including "The Coup," is AU after that.   
Category: Sydney/Vaughn   
Disclaimer: _Alias_ belongs to JJ Abrams, Bad Robot Productions, and ABC, not me.   
Notes: Thank you to Cassandra and to Abs for the fabulous beta-readings; thanks to Sabine for the German check.  
  
*** 

Alice was sitting at the dining room table in her pajamas when I trudged into the kitchen the next morning. I blinked, surprised to see her there.

She looked up briefly, then turned her attention back to the paper. "Morning."

"Morning," I answered, rubbing the back of my neck with a hand. "Am I missing something?"

Her eyes scrutinized me for a brief moment. "Not that I notice..."

"Didn't you find a new apartment?" I continued, walking into the kitchen and pouring myself a bowl of cereal with no milk. Jill, one of the girls I dated in college, always made fun of me for eating dry cereal. Alice was the only woman I'd ever met who ate hers that way, too. I wondered if Sydney ate her cereal without milk...

"Are you listening to anything I'm saying?" she cut in suddenly, breaking my train of thought.

My attention snapped quickly back to her face. "Not really."

She shook her head, focusing on the paper again. "I tried to rent one, but it was taken before my offer was sent in, I think," she said mechanically. "I'm still looking."

"It's been weeks."

"I know that," she replied. Her expression softened, and she turned to me. I leaned against the kitchen counter. "Mike, I know I'm intruding here. I'm trying to find something suitable as quickly as possible."

I shrugged half-heartedly. "If you'd just paid your rent on the last place--"

"--we wouldn't be having this conversation," she finished sharply. "You're not my parent, Mike. You can't tell me how to live." She dropped her spoon into her empty cereal bowl with a loud clink and stood. "You're always trying to fix me."

"Oh, come on..."

"I'm like a freaking charity case to you," she answered, staring me down. "You thought you could change me last time, and it didn't work again. I'm completely grateful that you're letting me stay here, but if this isn't going to work, I'm going to have to make other arrangements."

I sighed. "I thought you said that you didn't have anywhere else to go."

"I don't," she said firmly, padding into the carpeted living room and flopping down on the sofa.

I ditched my cereal on the counter and followed her, collapsing in one of the huge chairs. I thought fleetingly that Alice had chosen this furniture, and it seemed completely ironic. "Allie, listen," I began slowly, leaning forward and steepling my fingers. "I'm sorry..."

"Don't say that," she interrupted. "You don't have to be sorry. You didn't do anything wrong."

"I shouldn't have said that about your rent thing..."

"Stop it," she admonished, pulling her knees up to her chest. There was a long pause. "You had a date last night, didn't you?"

"What?"

"I heard you come in late. I figured you had a date," she clarified.

"I could have been working late," I pointed out.

She shook her head. "You were on a date."

"It wasn't a date. I was transferred to a new department, and I went for a business dinner with one of my new coworkers," I said quickly, taking a deep breath.

She just stared at me for a while, then shook her head. "Okay. Business dinner. But anyway, you shouldn't...if you wanted to bring someone back here, you shouldn't have to worry that I'm here. I shouldn't be here. You should be free to do whatever you want."

"I am free to do whatever I want," I pointed out.

"Would you have brought her back here, knowing that I was probably still in the apartment, even if you thought I was moving?"

I thought about this for a moment. "Probably not."

"You see? I know that I'm in the way. I know that I don't belong here anymore. I'm trying to find a new place as quickly as possible."

"Good."

"Okay," she said smoothly, standing. "I just...I wanted to apologize for not being out of here yet."

"It's okay."

"Oh, hey," she began, sounding slightly distracted. This was normal with Alice; she'd always been this flighty little butterfly, darting around from one thing to another. She'd been so fascinating at the beginning of our relationship. She rummaged around in one of the coffee table drawers. "Just a second..."

She held up a cigarette lighter. "You quit, didn't you? I found this under the couch."

I stared at it. It was one of the cheap lighters that could be picked up at a discount store or a gas station; bright blue, shiny, small. "You found that under the couch?"

"Yeah...I'm serious. I thought you'd kicked the habit for good. I haven't seen you smoke lately."

I stood and gingerly took the lighter from her hand. "I haven't smoked for years. But I have a friend from work who does; he might have left it here."

"'He,' or 'girl from the new department that you took to dinner last night'?" she pressed.

I rolled my eyes. "Go find an apartment, for God's sake. I've got work."

"Yeah," she replied, and though her tone was light and friendly, there was something troubled in her eyes. "Have fun."

***

"Le poisson vole à minuit."

I crossed my arms over my chest. Two weeks after our business dinner, we were stuck in one of SD-6's clean, modern conference rooms, waiting for a tech briefing. We'd been waiting for a long time. "Why are you speaking Spy French?"

"Puisque je m'ennuie. Vous êtes censés m'aider avec mon Français, droit?"

"Apparently, Inspector Clouseau." I paused, raising an eyebrow. "Though I'm not sure your Spy French will be that useful in the field."

"Soyez silencieux. Il m'amuse." She looked at me expectantly, and I sighed.

"Savez-vous la voie à Rouen?" I asked lightly, watching her from across the conference room table.

"Savez-vous la voie à San Jose?" she replied quietly, and I started laughing, leaning down and resting my head on the table.

"You're incredibly strange," I said, my voice muffled. I lifted my head, resting my chin on the table's edge. "Is Marshall ever going to get here?"

"Genius takes time," she answered mildly, sitting back in her chair and crossing her legs at the knee. "You're impatient this morning."

"I'm impatient?"

"Yes, you're..." Her voice trailed off as Marshall stumbled through the door. "Hi, Marshall."

"Hi," he greeted, beaming at her. As I sat up, I couldn't stop a smirk from spreading over my face, and she shot me a look.

"Have something exciting for us this afternoon?" I asked nonchalantly, and his face lit up.

"You have no idea...you just really don't have any idea," he began quickly. "You've never seen anything like this because, well, _I_ haven't seen anything like this. Of course, that's because I came up with it..."

"Seriously, Marshall, I can't wait," Sydney replied genuinely. "What have you got?"

He sat down at the head of the table, in the chair where Sloane would normally sit, and pulled a wallet out of his pocket. "Agent Vaughn, this one's actually for you."

"Really?" I asked incredulously, genuinely surprised. Sydney and I had been on two missions, one to Beirut and one to Mexico City, since Vienna, and I'd been stuck in the van both times. This time we were going to be working as a team in the field in Berlin. "What is it?"

"It's a wallet," he answered seriously, his gaze shifting rapidly between Sydney's face and mine. "Of course...you knew that. It's a couple of things, actually."

"Complicated?" Sydney asked, and he nodded vigorously.

"That's why I didn't present it during the mission briefing...I was still putting the finishing touches on it."

She nodded, and before she could open her mouth to reply, he continued. "It actually just is a wallet; it's a nice one, but it's just a wallet. I think that this actually is the exact wallet that Sean Connery carries." He paused. "No, I know that it is...I designed it that way." He gave Sydney a little boy grin, and she kindly smiled back at him. Moments like this made me certain that I was right about her; a woman who could be so kind could never have inherited her mother's propensity for killing. It simply wasn't possible. "I figured that maybe carrying James Bond's wallet would bring you a little luck in the field, Agent Vaughn."

I smiled slowly. "Thank you, Marshall."

"So, what does it do?" Sydney asked curiously, gingerly touching the wallet with a fingertip.

Marshall's chest puffed with pride. "Distractions. Information pirating. Fingerprint making. Heck, what _doesn't_ this thing do?" he laughed to himself. He flipped open the wallet and pulled out a credit card. "This has an adhesive strip on the back. All you have to do is stick it to the computer hard drive and it sucks all of the information right out. Just like..." He snapped theatrically. "...that. Standard hard-drive-sucker. You've used them before, Syd."

Sydney nodded. "Several times. They're still impressive."

He fidgeted. "Thank you, I know...anyway, that's part of it. You should probably take that with you in your purse." He pulled out a crisp Euro note. "This you can fold up...when you press the ends together just so, it triggers a little timed explosion. Three minutes later it goes off, fills the whole room with smoke, so, you know, get out of there quickly. That'll be your distraction. And this..." He opened the wallet and flipped open the photograph sleeve dramatically. It was thicker than normal; it looked like several photographs were stuffed into one sleeve. "...this is where you'll make the fingerprint. Get something he's touched...a glass or something...and wipe the photo sleeve on it. The pictures inside are latex, and a tiny little chip will melt them into the print. Just slide it out and you're good to go."

"May I?" I asked, reaching toward the wallet.

"Sure, sure...just don't touch that euro until you have to."

"Right," I replied, watching Sydney out of the corner of my eye. "This really is impressive, Marshall. You do good work."

I really thought he was going to blush. "Thank you. Yes. Now, I've actually got to go meet with Sloane. And Sydney, your dad stopped me in the hallway; he wants to speak with you."

She nodded, standing up and looking toward the doorway. "I'm going to go see what he wants."

I mirrored her nod. "I'll catch up with you later."

***

Walking to the warehouse was strange. I hadn't been there since I had taken over for Dixon; Sydney had met with Weiss for the first missions. It had been decided that we didn't want any suspicion attached to me from the start.

Weiss's car was parked in the lot; mine was on the street. I slipped in through the door, my eyes searching the familiar space. It was going to be strange to meet here with someone else.

"Hey, stranger," Weiss greeted. "Haven't seen you in quite a while."

I shrugged, taking a seat on a nearby crate. "I've been busy."

"Sydney says that you're getting quite a few new stamps on your passport," he said, grinning. "It's good to see you."

"You, too," I replied. "It's weird not seeing all the regulars at work. How is everyone?"

"They're good," he replied. "They all want me to tell them the particulars of this new thing you've got going."

"They don't know, right?" I asked. "I thought we were keeping it as quiet as possible."

"Oh, we are, we are," he assured me. "They're just curious, that's all. But it's all superficial. In our line of work, they know better."

I nodded. "So, Agent Weiss, what's my counter mission?"

He laughed. "Now, _that's_ weird. You're supposed to download the files onto SD-6's card, then do a brush pass at the airport with another agent -- Sydney's going to need to do that, actually. We want you out of the spotlight." He paused. "It should be the same route as usual. I'll be doing the exchange, we'll download the files, and we'll do another pass by the cab."

"It'll be easier for her. She won't have to hide the pass from Dixon this time," I mused, and Weiss nodded.

"So, that's basically it. You ought to get back to the office."

"I'll see you later."

***

"Repeat after me, _slowly_," she emphasized, watching me from her perch on the edge of the hotel bed. "Mein Name ist auf der Gästeliste." 

I sighed, dropping into a wooden chair and rubbing my eyes with the heels of my hands. "Mein Name is auf der Gästeliste..."

"Ist," she corrected. "Mein Name _ist_ auf der Gästeliste." 

"They send us to Mexico City, and I sit in the van. But when we go to Berlin, oh, I need to go inside and speak German," I complained, standing and pacing in front of her. "What the hell does that even mean? Mein Name ist auf der Gästeliste..."

"My name is on the guest list," she translated deftly. "Vaughn, you're going to do fine if you'll just pay attention."

"I'm paying attention--"

"--fine. Die Ausstellung ist faszinierend."

"I don't like you right now," I replied, sitting back down in the chair.

"You think I care?"

"I hoped you might," I answered, careful to keep my voice light.

"You're such a baby," she scowled. "Come on. Die Ausstellung ist faszinierend."

"Die Ausstellung ist faszinierend," I mimicked. "And that means...?"

"The exhibit is fascinating. Say it again," she commanded, lying down on her stomach, propping her chin on her folded arms.

I tried not to stare at her legs, exposed and smooth in worn plaid boxer shorts. "Don't you need to get dressed?"

"I can change faster than you, I'll bet," she countered. "Vaughn, quit stalling."

"Die Ausstellung ist faszinierend."

"Good," she replied, a satisfied smile. "Just...let me do the talking, okay?"

"You don't have to twist my arm, you know."

"Ha, ha," she deadpanned, shifting and standing up. She stretched like a cat, running a hand through her damp hair. "So I'm trying to decide...blonde or brunette tonight?"

I scrutinized her, propping my bare feet up on the bed. "Have you got those scary Dieter glasses?"

"Of course." She grinned at me.

"Brunette, then, I think."

"Excellent choice. Then I won't have to wear that itchy wig..." She disappeared into the bathroom, coming out with a toothbrush hanging out of her mouth.

It was scary, the level of comfort we'd achieved around each other. We didn't stay in the same hotel room while we were on a mission, but we spent every other extra hour in either her room or mine. Seeing her walk out of the bathroom with damp hair and no makeup made my stomach jump, but it didn't faze me.

We had arrived in Berlin three hours before; an hour after that, we had made our way to our rooms on the fourth storey of the SD-6 hotel in Berlin. She'd been drilling me on my non-existent German for most of the interim.

"So, Gregory Taylor, are you ready to make your grand SD-6 entrance?"

"The name 'Gregory' reminds me of a kid I went to junior high school with. He was the kid who read the math book because it interested him," I mentioned, wrinkling my nose.

"Did you beat him up?"

I raised an eyebrow. "Are you kidding me? I was relieved that he was the one getting the attention. Without Gregory, they would have been stealing _my_ lunch money. I was the scrawny little kid who couldn't read English nearly as well as French."

"And now you're the super secret agent man," she remarked, smiling behind her toothbrush.

"I don't know about that," I answered, and she laughed, walking into the bathroom again. I could hear the water running, and she came out sans toothbrush.

"Well, you know, James Bond you're not," she said lightly. "James Bond would have listened when the lady _du jour_ tried to teach him German."

"Hey, now..."

"James Bond probably would have known German to begin with," she amended, tossing her bag onto the bed and pulling out a stretchy black dress.

"You're just on a roll tonight, aren't you?" I replied. "Is that Madeleine's attire for the evening?"

"Yeah. You approve?"

I quirked an eyebrow quickly. "Hm."

"Glad to know it."

"What time are we supposed to be there?"

"In forty-five minutes...you ought to go get dressed. You got the stuff from Liza?"

Liza was a sort of prop master for SD-6; she was to disguises what Marshall was to gadgets. "Yeah."

"Okay. Meet me back in here in half an hour, okay?"

Thirty minutes later, we were Madeleine and Gregory Taylor, a couple looking to purchase some extremely expensive -- and in my opinion, extremely ugly -- artwork from an exhibit hosted by a man named Elias Wrothstall.

She'd wolf-whistled at me when I came back to her hotel room door. I'd changed into the suit Liza had given me; admittedly, it was much nicer than anything I owned was. "Liza's getting better and better."

I made a face. "You're one to talk."

The dress was long and clingy, showing off curves that I hadn't known she had. "Thank you."

"You're welcome." I grabbed her hand and led her out the door and into the little black car that Sloane had arranged for us.

"Oh! I almost forgot," she murmured as I drove toward Wrothstall's house. She pulled a folded envelope out of the tiny purse she carried and opened it, extracting matching gold rings. "Here, Gregory. Congratulations."

"Thanks," I replied lightly, taking the ring from her fingers -- they were colder than before, I noticed -- and sliding it onto my left hand. "Fits well."

"Good," she answered. "We don't have time to get it resized."

I smirked. "Right."

"So, I'm thinking that Madeleine is incredibly nearsighted -- hence the Dieter glasses -- and has horrible taste in art. What do you say we pick the ugliest painting in the place to pretend to buy?" she said mischievously, slipping the glasses on. The thick, black frames made her cheekbones jump out.

"Is Gregory the kind of guy that follows his wife's lead?"

"I think Gregory knows that it's easier to appease Madeleine than anger her," she quipped.

"Point well taken," I conceded. "But, since he has absolutely perfect vision, will he go along with Madeleine's art choices?"

"Gregory is a smart man," she answered lightly. "He knows what to do."

"Even if what's smart isn't what's right?"

Her eyes changed. "Sometimes the safe choice isn't always the desirable one, I suppose."

"So, what should Gregory do?" I asked, my mind racing over her previous words.

"First, he should valet the car," she said, indicating the driveway ahead.

"And second?"

She shrugged, looking at me with a strange expression on her face. "Play things by ear."

"Make spontaneous decisions?"

"Taking risks isn't always bad," she whispered, her voice faltering slightly as I handed the keys to the valet.

I draped an arm loosely about her waist as we walked inside; with her hair pulled back severely and the black glasses perched on her petite nose, she looked every bit the typical Continental intellectual. My fingers began instinctively stroking the sleek material over her hip, and she gave me an almost imperceptible look. We stepped into the line to enter the exhibit, and she suddenly retaliated, leaning her head back so that her lips hovered over my ear.

"Remember the phrases I taught you?" she asked softly, her lips carefully grazing my earlobe before she pulled back.

I drew in a harsh breath. "You'd better do the talking. You make me forget things, Madeleine."

She watched me for a moment before unwrapping my arm from her waist and lacing her fingers through mine. Her thumb stroked my palm. "Sorry."

"Don't be sorry."

Her eyes blazed. As we turned to the man at the entrance, however, they cooled and changed into warm, welcoming orbs. "Madeleine und Gregory Taylor. Unsere Namen sind auf der Liste."

He glanced at us over his glasses. "Ein Moment."

"Natürlich."

We waited until he pinpointed our pseudonyms. "Kommen sie herein, bitte."

"Danke," I replied, earning me a pleased glance from Sydney.

"You were paying attention?"

"Seriously, that's basic, common-knowledge German. But I always pay attention to you."

The exhibit walls were white and stark. "I don't know about that."

"I didn't say I always liked what you say. I just said that I pay attention."

"Right," she replied, threading her fingers through mine over and over. "Oh, look at that one, Greg."

"You like it?"

"I think so. What do you think?"

"I don't know. It's not really my style. But it's for you, so I think you should choose."

I looked for the man we knew was Wrothstall out of the corner of my eye, finally spotting him. "He's there. I'm going to get that glass."

"Careful," she whispered, perusing the painting innocently.

Wrothstall, a large man with heavy, dark features, downed the dregs of his drink and passed it to a waiter carrying a tray half-full of empty glasses and half with full glasses. I intercepted the waiter a few yards away, taking two glasses; a full one and Wrothstall's empty one. Cringing, I put the empty glass to my lips and pretended to down the remainder of the substance inside it, then walked over and handed the filled glass to Sydney. I was close to her; close enough to retaliate for her actions outside. I bent down and brushed my lips over the nape of her neck. I swore I could feel the pulse in her throat. Turn around's fair play, after all.

"Thank you," she replied smoothly. "I like this one." She pointed to the painting and downed the champagne with a flick of her wrist. She swallowed unevenly.

"I've got to use the restroom," I said, trying not to stare at her.

She turned and waved discreetly to a waiter. "Wo sind die Toiletten?"

"Die zweite Tür nach links, meine Dame," he answered succinctly.

"Second door to the left," she whispered in my ear, pressing an unexpected kiss to my cheek. "Hurry."

I hurried; I made a quick fingerprint copy from the glass, tossing the glass in the trash in the bathroom. The Euro note was detonated in a storage closet; I passed the copy to Sydney, and as soon as the melee began, she rushed to the office.

Everything went incredibly well; a few minutes later, Sydney returned, having downloaded information onto the SD-6 card. We inquired as to the problem with the smoke, and the security guards assured us that all was well, and that Herr Wrothstall wished his guests to continue browsing the exhibit. We declined, saying that we felt uncomfortable after the explosion.

And that's when things took an unexpected turn.

We headed out to the parking lot to find the car, as the valet had inexplicably disappeared. I grabbed the rental keys from a box just inside the door as we left the house. Her hand found mine again in the dark: how crazy was it that even holding her hand was incredibly sexy? The soft skin of her palm pressed tightly against mine, the slight pressure of her fingers... We walked steadily, quickly toward little black car after little black car. "Where the hell is the car?" she murmured, moving in her stilettos with practiced ease.

"There?" I asked, pointing toward a car.

"Maybe," she replied.

We started toward the car, but just as we had turned a corner, flashing lights came out of nowhere. "German police," she hissed, holding my hand tighter. "Come here..."

She backed up to a tree and looped her arms around my neck. I looked around desperately before turning back to her. Before I knew it, my lips were millimeters from hers and my pulse was racing. I pulled the glasses off her face, and then her lips were pressed soundly against mine, the police sirens blaring in the background. The lights were blazing, but that moment suddenly condensed to one thing: finally, Sydney Bristow's lips were on mine, and I didn't care what else was going on.

**End Chapter Eight**


	9. Chapter Nine

**Title: Rules of Engagement (9/?)  
****Author: Bella   
****E-mail: bella@bellalumina.net   
****Site: http://www.bellalumina.net/  
****Rating: PG-13   
****Timeline: Follows episode canon up to and including "The Coup," is AU after that.   
****Category: Sydney/Vaughn   
****Disclaimer: _Alias_ belongs to JJ Abrams, Bad Robot Productions, and ABC, not me.   
****Notes: Thank you to Cassandra and to Abs for the fabulous beta-readings; thanks to Sabine for the German check.  
  
**

***

The police cars raced by, sirens blaring and lights flashing, without a second thought to the amorous couple in the parking lot.  I kept my eyes closed, feeling him draw a small breath from between my lips as we kissed.  Break, pause, brush, deepen, break....  I made a small noise that was half confusion, half desire, and he pulled back just slightly, close enough that I could still feel the briefest whisper of his cheek against mine.  His chest was rising and falling; his breathing was shallow enough that I knew he was as affected and as surprised as I was.

"Sydney, I'm...." he began awkwardly, finally stepping back enough that I could see him in the moonlight.  Even in the dim light I could see that his face was flushed.  He paused, fumbling for words.

I hesitated.  "Don't...we don't need to worry about this right now.  Let's just get back to the hotel."

"Our plane leaves...?"

"In two hours," I supplied, fidgeting.  "Vaughn, we need to find the car...."

"Right, right, the car," he answered distantly, turning and scanning the lot.  "That one, maybe?  Damn it, didn't they realize that almost every car in the whole country is black?"

"Calm down," I replied irritably.  "Let me just ... I think it's that one."

"Are you sure?"

"No," I said quickly.  "But it could be."

He made a frustrated gesture.  "If we go by that philosophy, any one of these could be ours."

"Vaughn," I said tightly, "it's here somewhere.  We'll find it."

"You think I don't know that?"

"God, what are you, eleven years old?" I asked angrily, stomping my stiletto-clad foot.  "You're not helping."

He clenched his teeth, shaking his head, and began heading off in the opposite direction without me.

"Hey!" I cried out, hurrying after him.  He kept walking, and I added, "Stop.  I mean it!"

He paused but didn't turn to face me.  His shoulders were hunched.  I caught up to him, my feet protesting in the awful shoes I wore.  "What the hell are you doing?" I asked.

"Looking for the car," he replied shortly.

"It looked like you were trying to leave me."

He finally turned to me, his green eyes flashing and one eyebrow raised.  "Okay, now who's acting like an eleven-year-old?"

"Shut up."

"Don't tell me to shut up," he replied sharply, shaking his head, walking a little faster.

"I'll--"

He cut me off.  "There's the car."

"How can you be sure?  That looks like all the other ones."

"Read the plates."

I squinted at the number-letter sequence, and I realized what he was talking about.  "S-0-D-0-1-3-2."

"SD-6," he translated, a hint of pride creeping into his voice.  He pulled out the keys and unlocked the car with the remote on the keychain.  The car beeped softly.

He walked around and opened my door for me, letting me in, slamming the door shut in a way that let me know he wasn't happy with me.  Climbing into the driver's seat, he quickly started the car and pulled it out of the space.

Silence.

I crossed my arms over my chest, leaning back in the seat.  He tapped his fingers on the steering wheel, his eyes focused on the road.  Sighing, I reached over and flipped on the radio, searching for a suitable station.  He frowned when I settled on a classical station, but didn't say anything.

"What?" I pursued.

He pressed his lips into a thin line.  "Nothing."

"You made a face."

"I make faces all the time," he argued, arching an eyebrow.

"This one was different."

"Listen, I'm trying to drive.  Would you cut it out?"

"Fine," I replied sharply, turning off the radio and sitting back in the seat, glancing out the window at the sprinkling of stars just visible beyond the lights of the highway.  I traced constellations with a fingertip on the window: Orion, Cassiopeia, the Little Dipper.  Leaning my forehead against the cool glass, I squinted to find the Big Bear, but I couldn't decipher it against the glaring fluorescent lights.

I almost didn't hear him murmur, "What are you looking for?"

"Hm?"

"What are you looking for?" he said, his voice a little louder.  I looked over and his eyes were still glued to the road, but his mouth wasn't as set as a few minutes before.

"Constellations," I replied, turning my eyes back to the sky.

"Can't see through the lights?"

"No," I answered.  "I can see some of the brighter ones, but the glare is annoying."

He nodded, pulling off at our exit.  "Maybe you'll be able to see them when we get to the hotel."

"Maybe," I agreed, watching out the window.

He pulled the car into the parking garage at the hotel, and we walked briskly to the elevator.  He didn't say anything, but the second the elevator doors opened, he grabbed my hand and laced his fingers through mine.  I felt my heart jump, and I squeezed his hand lightly, earning a quick glance from him and a flash of green eyes, but no words.

"I'm going to my room," he said softly as we got off at the fourth floor and headed to our rooms.  "Call me when you're ready to go."

I nodded, wanting to say something but not sure what to say.  "See you then."

Why was it that every time something changed between us, we felt that we needed to deal with it by bickering, yelling, and generally acting like we were ten?  I felt so ashamed by the time I got back to my hotel room that I almost picked up the phone and called him, but I was too scared and too uncertain to make the call.  I sighed, packed, and mindlessly watched television until it was time to leave.

***

"Morning," Weiss said flatly, leaning against his car, and I laughed.

"You're not a morning person," I guessed, squinting against the sun that bore down on the quarry.

He smiled.  "No, I wouldn't say that.  Everything from Berlin came back as planned.  Good job."

"Thanks," I said.  "Of course, Vaughn's to thank for quite a bit of it."

"The 'good job' is for him, too," Weiss amended, grinning.  "How are you two doing?"

"Huh?" I asked, looking up at him quickly.

"How are you two doing?"

What the heck did he mean by that?  "We're doing fine," I replied lamely.

He raised an eyebrow, and I wondered if Vaughn had talked to him since Berlin.  "Good," he answered.

I couldn't help it.  "Why?"

"Oh, no reason," he said, shrugging.

"Really?"

"Really," he confirmed, and then gave me a strange look.  "You know that Vaughn wasn't a field agent before he started this op...."

"Yeah," I said.  "I mean, he did a little field work when he first started, but he was a desk guy."

"A couple of us were a little worried about him when he agreed to do this."

"I thought you were the only non-administrator that knew," I pointed out.

He shrugged.  "Okay, so it was just me.  He's a friend of mine, and he tends to make strange spontaneous decisions...like the whole Cole thing at SD-6, remember?"

I felt like being sarcastic, but I held my tongue.  "Yeah...."

"Totally split-second.  Devlin told him not to go and left the room, and he decided that he was going, end of story."

"It's not like he's going around the world making up things as he goes along...." I argued, thinking back to our conversation on the flight to Vienna.

"I'm not saying that.  I'm talking about...." he sighed.  "You know that he's not exactly objective when it comes to you."

My eyebrows went up.  "What?"

He fidgeted nervously.  "Come on, tell me you knew that...."

"Well ... I just ... yeah, I know that, but...." I stammered, gripping the driver's side door handle of the Land Rover like a life preserver.

"I just want you to make sure he's not getting in over his head."

I smiled at the memory of Vaughn suavely switching the champagne glasses at Wrothstall's house.  "He's doing just fine, Weiss."

"I'm pretty sure he took the job because of you," Weiss said suddenly.

I took a deep breath.  I'd known this, deep down; I'd always carefully avoided thinking about it.  "He's fine," I repeated.  "He's doing a good job."

"You're not concerned about this?"

I paced a few feet away from him, crossing my arms over my chest.  "I'm not sure I know what you want me to say here."

"He's like a brother to me, Sydney.  He and a couple of the other guys are like the brothers I never had growing up, and I want to make sure that they don't get hurt," he said, looking me straight in the eye.  "Okay?"

"I'm not going to hurt him."

"I didn't say that you would," he said, his voice measured.  "I'm just saying that he made this spontaneous decision about a very dangerous thing because he and you are...whatever."  He gestured vaguely.  "So be careful, and make sure he doesn't do anything stupid, because he might, and that wouldn't be good."

I frowned against the glaring sun.  "I'll watch out for him, though I don't think he needs me to.  I know he's okay on his own."

"Okay," Weiss said.  He paused, watching me carefully.  "That's really all."

"Okay," I said uncertainly, hopping in the Land Rover and driving away.  Weiss's words stayed with me; what if I was the only reason he'd agreed to be a double?  Part of me was thrilled by that, I hated to admit, because of the obvious implications of feelings that went along with it.  The other, more mature part of me was aching a little, because it meant that the whole thing was because of me.  If something went wrong, it would ultimately be my fault.  And with both Danny and Dixon gone because of my actions, I wasn't ready to face the idea of possibly losing someone else.

***

I was especially concerned and cautious the next day at work, because Vaughn would be going back to his CIA office that afternoon for the first time since he'd started as a double.  He was meeting with Devlin about some sort of office protocol, he said; I wasn't sure exactly what they were talking about.  Weiss's conversation still weighed heavily on my mind; I was careful not just because I cared about Vaughn but also because I felt slightly guilty about the whole thing.

Sloane called me into the office at two-thirty.  His face was drawn; his eyes stared at nothing in particular.  I knocked softly on the door frame before stepping inside.  "Sloane?"

He didn't move, but his gaze shifted to my face.  "Sydney, yes.  I have a few things I want to discuss with you."

I could have sworn that my heart stopped beating.  I swallowed around the huge lump forming in my throat.  "What's going on?"

"Sit," he requested, motioning to an empty chair.  He sighed.  "I'm not sure even how to begin this."

"Is something wrong?" I asked, careful to keep my voice measured, and slid into the waiting chair.

"Emily's fading quickly," he replied softly, his eyes moving back to the imaginary spot on the wall.  "I wanted you to know."

I nodded slowly.  "Is there anything I can do?"

"She's been very ... up and down lately," he offered.  "I'd like you to come over for dinner this week.  I think it might do her some good to see you."

"Of course," I murmured, feeling tears rising unbidden to my eyes.  "When?"

"Tomorrow night?"

"Okay," I answered quickly.

"I'm asking Jack to come over, too," he added.  "You might bring someone if you like."

My mind flew immediately to Vaughn, and I hesitated, smiling carefully.  "I don't know who I'd bring."

"I thought Emily might enjoy meeting Agent Vaughn.  What do you think?" he broached.

I began to wonder exactly what Sloane thought of Vaughn, and more specifically, Vaughn and me.  "I'll ask him if he wants to come.  He knows about Emily...."

Sloane nodded.  "Good.  I'll expect the two of you at six, then.  I want to make it early."

"Sure."  I wanted to get up and leave, but I wasn't sure if he was finished.

"Sydney, what do you remember about your mission to London?" Sloane asked suddenly, throwing me off guard.

I froze.  "The ... the last mission with Dixon," I said, my stomach tightening.

He nodded slowly.  "Do you remember anything about the ... explosion?" he asked carefully.

I blinked rapidly, twisting my hands together.  "Dixon called me on the com ... I hurried outside, and I saw the van explode.  I ran...."

"Nothing else?"

"No," I answered truthfully.  "Sloane, do you know anything about Dixon?"

He shook his head.  "We haven't heard anything new, but there are suspicions...."  He paused, steepling his fingers together.  "There are problems within the Alliance."

I was surprised to hear him mention the Alliance; he'd only spoken of it once before that I remembered, and then it was only a passing mention of other operations similar to SD-6 within the framework of other countries' intelligence agencies.  I'd never even thought of the Alliance before Danny's death.  "You think it might have been sabotage?" I asked incredulously.  Part of me had assumed that it was K-Directorate, though I had no proof.

"I don't know," he answered.  "I just want to let you know that we're looking into this.  We're not going to let these questions go unanswered."

I rose from the chair, nodding.  "Thank you.  I'm glad to know that."

"Thank you," he echoed, giving me a wan smile.

I left the room and headed back to my desk, my head swimming with thoughts and my fingers itching to dial the phone and talk to Vaughn.

***

"You want to save this for lunch tomorrow?" Francie asked, holding up a plastic container of takeout leftovers.  We'd ordered Thai food for a late dinner at her request.

I shook my head.  "Nah, it's never as good reheated."

She shrugged, chucking it into the fridge.  "Will is inevitably coming over soon enough.  He'll eat it."

"True."

"You okay?" she asked, leaning on the counter.

I shrugged.  "Emily's not doing well.  I'm going to have dinner at Sloane's house tomorrow, and I'm almost afraid to see her."

"How long has it been since you saw her?"

I mentally flipped through the pages of my calendar, cringing.  "It's been too long, I know.  I can't remember when I last saw her."

"She'll really appreciate it, I'm sure."

"Yeah," I agreed.  "It's just ... I don't know.  I've never known anyone who died this way.  Slow, drawn-out, painful.  With Mom and Danny, it was instant.  Dixon, too."

 "Remember when my aunt Tracy died?" she asked, and I nodded.  We'd been in ninth grade when her aunt had died of lung cancer, and Francie was upset about it for almost a year afterward.  "I think the best thing is to remember that she wasn't always like this, and it's only the outside that has changed.  She's still Emily."

"It's hard to see her like this and not think that she's someone else."

"I know," Francie said, resting her head on her folded arms.  "But it's important that you go.  Are you going to take Will again?"

I shook my head.  "I might go alone," I fibbed.  "My dad will be there."

"Good," she said certainly.  "That'll help."

"I guess so."

She glanced up at the clock: ten-thirty.  "I hate to be a wuss, but I've got to work early tomorrow.  I'm going to go to bed."

"Okay," I agreed.  "I'll finish cleaning up."

She nodded, walking around the counter to hug me.  "It'll be okay, Syd."

"Yeah, I know," I said softly.  "Thanks."

"It's what I'm here for," she reminded.  "See you in the morning."  She gathered up a few papers from the dining room table and padded into her bedroom.

The dim light from the street lamp outside filtered through the kitchen window, making lacy patterns on the countertops.  I put the dishes in the dishwasher and was ready to collapse on the couch when I heard a soft knock at the door.

Vaughn.  I opened the door to see his nervous face looking down at me.  "Hey."

I blinked, surprised.  "Hey ... what's going on?"

"Nothing.  Is this a bad time...?" he began, his eyes searching behind me nervously.

"No, it's just me.  Francie went to sleep early."  I paused, unsure of what to say.  "Do you want to come in?"

"Get your shoes," he said cryptically, and my heart began to race.

"What happened?  Is something wrong?" I asked quickly.

"No, no, nothing like that," he assured me.  "Just get your shoes and come out here."

I raised an eyebrow, walking over to the couch and sliding on a pair of sandals.  "Okay...."

He grabbed my hand and pulled me out the door.  I resisted.  "Hang on, hang on ... if we're going somewhere, I need my house keys.  Are we going somewhere?"

"Yes," he replied briefly.

"Where?"

"Just get your keys," he said impatiently, and I almost laughed at him.

"You're being incredibly weird," I remarked, leaving him standing on the stoop as I ducked inside, scribbled a note to Francie, and grabbed my keys, locking the door behind me.  "Okay.  Now, what's going on?"

"You'll see when we get there."

"That makes me nervous," I said, watching amusement flash over his eyes.

"You know you can trust me," he chided, grabbing my hand and walking over to his car, opening the door for me.  "No bugs.  I checked."

"Good," I replied, sliding into the passenger's seat, watching as he walked around to the driver's side.  He got in, closed the door, and we zoomed away from my street.  "Seriously, Vaughn...."

"You'll see," he repeated firmly, reaching over and grabbing my hand.  I felt giddy, like I was suddenly a teenager again and the most popular boy at school had asked me to the homecoming dance.

"It's not a good idea to surprise a spy, you know," I offered.

He snorted.  "I don't think you're going to deck me."

We drove for a few miles, finally pulling up in a deserted spot overlooking the bright lights of the city below.  "Vaughn...." I began as he turned off the car and opened the door.  I got out and faced him, closing the door behind me.

He reached into the open window of his car and switched the headlights off.  "You couldn't see the stars in Berlin."

"No, the city lights were too bright...."

He'd brought me to go stargazing.  I could have melted into a puddle in the dirt right there.  He moved to sit on the hood of the car, reaching out a hand for me to climb up.  I grasped it, unable to keep the smile off my face.  "You brought me to see the stars?"

Leaning back against the windshield, he looked up at the sky.  "You know, I've always thought that astronomy was interesting, but I was never very good at picking out the constellations.  I thought you might be able to help me out," he replied calmly.

I burst into a gale of laughter, leaning back beside him.  "You're too much, seriously."

"So you don't want to show me?" he asked innocently.

I grinned, moving so that my shoulder brushed against his with every movement.  "I'll show you."  I paused, searching the sky.  "Okay, look straight overhead ... there are three bright stars, right in a row.  That's Orion's Belt."  I reached up toward the heavens, pointing out each of the stars.

"That one's not too hard to pick out."

"No, it's usually pretty bright," I agreed.  "Okay, the Little Dipper is right ... there."  I pointed upward again.  "Seven stars; four in the ladle, three in the handle.  See it?"

He reached over and curled his fingers around my outstretched hand, tracing the design in the sky.  "There?"

I turned my face from the stars, looking over at his glittering eyes.  "Yeah."

He turned his face to look at me, our noses nearly touching, and he smiled the adorable smile that curved the edges of his lips, deepened his dimples, and crinkled his eyes.  "You're an excellent teacher."

"It helps to have an attentive student."

"I wanted to talk to you about the whole Berlin thing," he began, his expression suddenly hesitant.

"Vaughn, come on, we don't have to...." I disagreed, but he reached up and put a finger to my lips.

"I'd like to," he continued, "because I think that things would be really awkward if we didn't discuss it."

He pulled the finger away, and I nodded.  "That's true."

"Yeah.  So, we kissed.  I kissed you ... you kissed me.  We ... this doesn't have to change anything."

"It was for a mission," I reasoned, and I thought I saw something change in his eyes.

"Right.  It was ... business," he agreed, making a face.

"Right," I echoed.

We sat there for a moment, looking up at the stars in silence.  Finally I couldn't take it anymore, and I grabbed his hand, lacing my small fingers through his longer ones.

"It was a good kiss," I said softly, not looking over at him.

In my peripheral vision, I could see him turn his face toward me.  "It was," he agreed.

"I might like to kiss you again sometime," I broached.

I nearly held my breath waiting for his answer, but for the longest time he didn't say anything, just looked at me.  I was beginning to feel uncomfortable when he turned away, exhaling audibly.  "I think I could kiss you again," he said diplomatically, and I giggled, my free hand flying up to cover my mouth.

He chuckled as my whole body began to shake with laughter.  "I'm sorry," I gasped.  "It's just ... we're the most screwed up people in the entire world, you know it?"

"We're pretty messed up," he agreed, laughing softly.  "Who ever would have guessed that you and I would end up here?"

I glanced up at the sparkling sky.  "Must have been written in the stars," I mused.  "Wow, that was corny...."

We began to laugh again, and I looked over at him, clutching his hand tightly.  "I meant what I said before."

"That we're screwed up?"

"That I might like to kiss you again sometime."

"When's sometime?" he asked, and his motive was so transparent that I almost started giggling again.

"I don't know," I replied, shrugging.  "Sometime when it's not for a mission."

"Okay...." he answered slowly.

"I'll let you know," I answered with a smile.

"What if I decide to kiss you before you let me know?"

"I don't know," I said.  "We'd have to see about that."

"Hm," he replied, smiling widely.  "I'll have to remember that."  He paused, glancing over at me.  "Going back to the office was weird today."

"How did it go?"

"Weird," he repeated.  "I felt like I hadn't been there for about a thousand years."

"Did everything go okay?"

"I think so," he answered.  "They made me go talk to psych again...."  He made a face.

"Yuck."

"Yeah.  Barnett's nice, at least.  Weiss says hello."

"Hey, by the way," I began abruptly, "what are you doing tomorrow afternoon?"

He frowned.  "Taking my dog to the vet."

"You have a dog?"

"Yeah, a bulldog.  Donovan.  I brought him to the park one time, remember?"

I thought back, and the image of a little white bulldog flashed into my mind.  "We were meeting ... we were supposed to be running," I said.

"That's him.  He's got a yearly appointment.  What's tomorrow afternoon?"

"Early dinner at Sloane's.  Emily's not feeling well, and he thought it might do her some good to have a regular dinner.  He wanted me to ask if you'd come along."

"He said that?"

"Sort of.  First, he asked if I'd like to bring someone.  Then he suggested that I bring you," I replied.

"You think he's trying to set us up?" he asked, his dimples flaring mischievously.

I shuddered.  "If there's anyone I wouldn't want playing matchmaker...."

"True, true.  It's just kind of funny."

"Ironic, anyway."

"Yeah," he said, running his thumb over my palm.  "So I think that I could find someone to take Donovan if you want me to go."

I looked over at him.  "Really?"

"Yeah," he answered, and I suddenly remembered the ex-girlfriend.

"Are you still letting ... the Thanksgiving girlfriend stay over?" I asked, trying to sound innocent.

He turned to me, looking me straight in the eyes.  "Alice is still staying in my guest room, yeah.  She can't find an apartment, or so she says."

"Is she not ... reliable?"

"Depends on the situation.  She's not good at paying bills on time."

I cringed, and he nodded.  "That's not good."

"No," he agreed.  "Does that ... I don't know.  Does that bother you?"

Yes.  "No, no," I said quickly.  "I mean, it's your house ... anyone you want to stay can stay in your guest room."

"Okay," he said.  "Do you want me to go?"

"Yes," I replied certainly, and he smiled.

"Okay.  We'll go," he said.  "Into the belly of the beast to dine."

"Sloane's the only beast," I reminded.  "Emily's wonderful."

He nodded.  "I believe that.  I trust your judgment."

"Good," I answered.  I glanced at my watch as I raised an arm to rub my neck: twelve-thirty.  "We'd better go.  I've got an early meeting with my dad."

"Okay."  He slid off the hood, reaching out his hands to help me down.  Our bodies brushed as I stood, and I shivered.  "Thank you for showing me the constellations."

"Thank you for doing this for me," I whispered, looping my arms around his neck and hugging him tightly.

I felt his lips brush the top of my head as I buried my face in the crook of his neck, and I sighed.  We broke apart eventually, got in the car, and drove back to my house in companionable silence.


	10. Chapter Ten

**Title**: Rules of Engagement (10/?)  
**Author**: Bella   
**E-mail**: bella@bellalumina.net   
**Site**: http://www.bellalumina.net/  
**Rating**: PG-13   
**Timeline**: Follows episode canon up to and including "The Coup," is AU after that.   
**Category**: Sydney/Vaughn   
**Disclaimer**: _Alias_ belongs to JJ Abrams, Bad Robot Productions, and ABC, not me.   
**Notes**: Thank you to Cassandra and to Abs for the fabulous beta-readings.   
  
***   
  
I woke up the next morning, and Alice was sitting in the living room, her suitcase on the floor beside her. She was on the phone, talking intently with someone. I cleared my throat loudly, and her gaze moved to rest on my face. She waved, and then held up an index finger, mouthing, "Just a second." 

I nodded, padding into the kitchen and opening the refrigerator. Frowning, I pushed a milk carton that was past its date out of the way, looking toward the back. Empty. I really needed to go to my mom's house and raid her kitchen. 

"I'm getting out of your hair," Alice's voice announced from behind me. 

I looked up, shutting the refrigerator. "Did you find an apartment?" 

"Sort of," she said, fidgeting. "I found a roommate." 

"Good," I said thoughtfully. "I hope she's nicer than that slob you lived with when I met you." 

"Actually," she said, pausing, "it's not a she." 

I raised an eyebrow. "Oh. Sorry. Uh...congratulations." 

"Oh, stop it," she commanded. "He's a nice guy. His name is Alex. We've been seeing each other for a few weeks." 

"Where'd you meet him?" 

"At work," she said. "Same place you met yours." 

I frowned. "I'm not dating anyone." 

"Right..." she said, drawing out the word. "So, you were out by yourself last night?" 

"No," I said defensively. "I'm not dating her. She's a friend from work." 

"What's her name?" 

I hesitated, and she smirked. "You see? That's how I know you're dating her. Because you're all nervous." 

"Am not." 

"I can read you like an open book, Michael Vaughn," she said gleefully. "Is she nice?" 

"I'm not dating her," I repeated. 

Alice shook her head. "Denial, denial. Anyway, I'm leaving this morning, so I wanted to thank you for your lovely hospitality." 

"No problem," I mumbled. 

She walked over and smacked a kiss on my cheek. "I'll see you, Mike." 

"Yeah," I replied. "See you, Allie." 

I sighed, walking into the living room and picking up the lighter on the table. I turned it over in my hands, and then put it back down on the table. I ran to the kitchen and grabbed a dishtowel out of a drawer, wrapping the bug securely in the fabric and stowing it in the back of one of the drawers in my dresser. Picking up the phone in the living room, I decided that I needed to make two calls: one to my mother to beg her to take the dog to the vet, and one to Weiss, to find out what the hell this lighter really was. 

*** 

I was supposed to meet Sydney at her house at five-thirty, so I ran to the grocery store to buy some milk and talk with Weiss at three. 

"What's going on?" he asked from across the aisle, peering into the shelves as if he expected something to suddenly appear. 

"Alice left this morning; she found a place to live." 

"That's good. It's about time she cut that umbilical cord." He picked up a package of Rice-a-Roni and scrutinized it. "That's not the only thing you called me about, is it?" 

"No," I replied. "She found this on my floor before I left for Berlin. I'd almost forgotten it." I slid the fabric-swaddled blue lighter across the shelf to him. 

He unwrapped the bundle and turned over the blue lighter, then wrapped it up again. "What is this?" 

"A lighter," I replied. 

"You started smoking again? Because I'm still on the wagon, you know..." 

"You're mixing up addictions again," I said, smirking. "No, I'm not smoking again. She found this on my floor. It's not mine." 

"I assume it's not hers," he guessed. 

I nodded. "And my mother's the only other person who's been in my house lately besides you and Driscoll, so I have no idea where it came from." 

"You think it's something?" 

"The bug detector that Jack gave me didn't pick it up. I don't know what it is, but I thought it was worth checking out." 

He turned it over in his hand, and then slipped it in his pants pocket. "I'll have tech look at it." 

"Okay," I said, grabbing the gallon of milk I'd come for. "I'm going to dinner with Sydney at Sloane's tonight. She'll talk with you next." 

"Have fun," he remarked flippantly. 

I rolled my eyes. "Thanks." 

*** 

She looked gorgeous, even though she was fidgeting nervously and she was only wearing one shoe. "Am I early?" I asked, looking down at her bare toes and silver toenails. 

"No, I'm running really late," she said breathlessly. "Come in." 

I peered into the room. "You sure?" 

"Yeah," she said. "Don't worry, no one's here, no grilling sessions." 

I nearly sighed in relief, but thought the better of it. "So..." 

"I'm just going to apologize in advance," she said, puttering around the room, searching for something. "I might end up being a total basket case tonight." 

"I don't think you're capable of basket-case behavior," I argued, purposely not bringing up the pier or her mother or a few other things. I sat down on the couch and sank down a little, which is the mark of an excellent couch, in my opinion. 

She shook her head. "Well, you never know." 

"What's wrong with you?" 

She mumbled something in response, and I frowned. "What?" 

"I said, I don't want to go," she replied softly. "And I feel like a complete ass for feeling that way." 

"Syd--" 

"She's my friend, Vaughn, and she's dying, and I'm so afraid of going to see her that I want to chicken out and stay home," she said quickly, sitting down in a chair and resting her head in her hands. 

"Sydney, listen to me," I said, watching her intently. "You don't have to apologize for being scared of this." 

"I'm not scared," she argued stubbornly. "I don't get scared. I'm not supposed to." 

"You're allowed." 

She looked up at me and sighed. "Just...fair warning." 

"I think I can handle it," I replied, offering her a slow smile. 

"I'd make a clever 'handler' joke here, but I can't think of one off the top of my head," she murmured, and I felt a huge grin spread across my face. 

She stood and walked across the room, still limping slightly because of her shoe-less foot. "Check under the couch?" she requested, sitting down next to me, close enough that her arm brushed mine when I moved. 

I nodded, reaching under the couch and sweeping my hand around the space. "Found it," I muttered when my fingers caught something small and strappy. I pulled the shoe out and dangled it in front of her. 

She sighed in relief, grabbing the shoe and slipping it on. "We'd better go; we're going to be late." She reached for my hand and twined her fingers through mine. "Grab that bottle of wine on the table?" 

She reached out and snagged the bottle as we walked past; I opened door for her, and we hurried out to my car. We barely spoke on the drive there; Sydney fidgeted nervously in her seat and held onto my free hand tightly. "There," she said, pointing at the house when we turned onto Sloane's street. "That one." 

I pulled the car to a stop on the street in front of the house, and we got out of the car and hurried up the walk. I stood a little behind her as she rang the doorbell, looking around the house. This was strange; I was going to be eating dinner at the head of SD-6's house. I wondered what Haladki would have said about this.... 

"Sydney!" Sloane greeted us happily, opening the door wide to reveal a lavishly decorated room. "I'm so glad you two could make it. Hello, Michael." Taken aback by his use of my first name, I realized that he was addressing me, and I gave a small nod in recognition, handing him the bottle of wine. "This looks excellent, thank you." 

"How's Emily?" Sydney asked softly, hanging close to me as we stepped into the house. 

Sloane shrugged. "She's excited about dinner tonight. It made her whole face light up when I told her you were coming." 

She smiled softly. "I'm glad. I've missed her." 

"She's missed you too, but she understands that you're busy," he said, leading us into the dining room. Jack was standing off to one side of the table, talking in a low voice with Emily. She was a small woman with a drawn face and a scarf wrapped around her head. She smiled maternally when Sydney walked in the room. 

"Sydney!" she exclaimed happily. 

Sydney hurried around the table to give Emily a hug. "I'm sorry it's been so long," she murmured. 

Emily shook her head slightly. "I know you're busy," she said quickly. "Are you going to introduce me to your friend?" 

Sydney stood and walked the few feet back to me, looping her arm through mine. "Emily, this is Michael Vaughn. Michael, this is Emily." 

I reached out to shake Emily's frail hand. "It's wonderful to meet you. Sydney's told me all about you." 

Emily gave me a warm smile. "It's lovely to meet you, too. Arvin says you're the best new employee he's had in quite some time." 

"Thank you," I said, a little surprised, and turned to Sloane, who nodded. 

"Well," Jack said, jumping into the conversation a little mechanically, "shall we?" 

We sat and ate, and the conversation mostly stemmed around a vacation that Sloane and Emily were planning to take in a week's time. Emily's attention didn't turn back to me until we were drinking an after-dinner glass of wine. "So, Michael," she began lightly, "how long have you been working in finance?" 

"I started in banking right after grad school," I replied, sitting back in my chair, trying to ignore Jack's glances from across the table. 

She nodded. "Arvin has mentioned that you're a lawyer," she said, taking a small sip of wine. 

"Yeah," I said, leaning forward. "I went to law school, but I was always interested in international law and financing." 

Sloane suddenly stood. "Emily, if you don't mind, I'd like to show Jack and Michael that new billiard table we bought last week." 

Emily looked a little surprised, but she nodded. "Of course." She turned to Sydney and smiled. "Sydney and I need to catch up a little." 

Sydney returned Emily's warm smile and stood. "Would you like to go out to the garden?" 

"Actually, let's go into the living room. It's more comfortable," Emily suggested, struggling a little to stand. Sloane rushed over to help her, and I could see an uncertain, uncomfortable expression flicker on Sydney's face. I wanted to grasp her hand, give her a comforting hug, but I couldn't, not there. 

"Sure," Sydney replied with false cheerfulness. "It's probably too cool outside, anyway." 

"Come on, I'll show you that table," Sloane repeated, gesturing for us to follow him. I fell into step behind Jack, stealing a quick glance at Sydney, who was helping Emily to a nearby couch. 

We walked through another heavily decorated room, back through Sloane's study, where I had the keen remembrance that there was a CIA bug planted somewhere in the room. We passed through a small hallway into a room with tall windows and a huge billiard table in the center of the floor. 

Jack whistled. "You've outdone yourself. This is really something." 

"Remember that table we played on at Langley?" Sloane asked, chuckling. I tried not to let my expression change, but instead focused my attention on the smooth maroon-colored top of the table. "That old green monstrosity?" 

"The one where one of the corner pieces fell off when you sank one into the corner pocket?" Jack asked, a smile spreading across his face. "Seems like a million years ago." 

"You play?" Sloane asked me, and I shrugged. 

"In college, some," I replied. "I'm not great, but I'm not horrible, either." That was a lie, but I didn't want to draw extra attention to myself. I used to hustle in college for book money. 

"Well, let's see," Sloane said, grabbing three cues from their rack on the wall and handing one each to me and to Jack. "Jack, you want to rack 'em?" 

My mind raced with ways that I could throw the game; I prayed that they were both excellent players. "You want to break?" Sloane offered. 

I declined. "Go ahead." 

He did, sinking one ball in a side pocket. I squinted at the table, tallying up the numbers, trying to decide which ones would be mine. He missed the next ball, and Jack motioned for me to go ahead. 

"I want to thank you," Sloane began languidly, leaning slightly on his cue, "for the work you've been doing for us. You've been going above and beyond, and it's not going unnoticed." 

I gave him a wan smile, tapping the nine-ball into the three and sinking it neatly. One at a time.... "Thank you. I've enjoyed my time with SD-6 so far." Not a complete lie. 

Sloane's carefully controlled expression gave way to a slight smirk. "I'm glad." 

I missed the next shot on purpose. "Jack?" 

Jack gave me an indecipherable look, then leaned over the edge of the table and expertly knocked two of his into one pocket, and then another, and then another. He missed the next shot, breaking the silence with a muttered, "Arvin, it's all yours." 

Sloane nodded, and then turned his eyes back to me as he lined up his next shot. "You and Sydney are getting along well?" 

I nodded slowly. "She's wonderful to work with. She really knows what she's doing." 

"She's one of the biggest assets we have at SD-6," Sloane murmured, dropping the nine-ball into one of the center pockets. 

"She's a good agent," I replied, suddenly wary of where this was going. 

Jack glanced at Sloane and then me, saying, "I'm going to go grab that bottle of brandy I brought along." 

"Good idea," Sloane enthused, and Jack nodded slightly before leaving the room. 

I was alone in a room with the man who murdered Sydney's fiancé. Alone in a room with the man who had been a thorn in the CIA's side for years.... He was talking, and I was staring at the pool table. "Sorry?" I asked quickly when his voice signaled a question. 

"I asked if the two of you were becoming close," he repeated. 

"We're becoming friends," I said coolly. 

"I don't know how much Sydney has told you about the organization," he said. "Your shot, by the way ... I consider Sydney as a daughter, and I've had to do some things in the past that no father would ever consider." 

I bent carefully over the table and missed the shot, but not on purpose this time. The ball bounced off the edge of the pocket and rolled complacently along the side of the table. I frowned. "She's told me that she broke confidentiality rules a year and a half ago." 

"She took a risk that she knew was not called for," Sloane mused. "It had to be dealt with it. I still feel guilty for my actions, but I had to look out for the good of the agency." 

"The country comes first," I remarked, tasting the bitter irony of the words as they flowed out of my mouth. 

"I want nothing more than to see Sydney happy," he said, smiling a smile that crinkled the edges of his eyes. "Your friendship seems to bring great happiness to her." 

I didn't know what to say. "I hope so," I replied lamely. 

"Just know that I think it's wonderful that you two are becoming such good friends," he said for a final time, and I nodded. Was he trying to set us up? If I'd had the time, I could have laughed at the strange about-face of the situation. I just nodded again. 

Jack returned with the brandy none too soon. "Your shot, Jack," Sloane announced. 

"Did I miss anything important?" he asked as he lined up his shot. His voice took on that tone that I still hadn't figured out. Was he kidding? Was he serious? Was he mocking me? It was unnerving. 

"Just complimenting Mr. Vaughn again on his excellent work thus far," Sloane said, his eyes still crinkling. 

"Be careful, Arvin," Jack said in a carefully measured tone. "You'll never get rid of him." 

I was in over my head. I knew that for certain now. 

*** 

"He's definitely trying to set us up," I said as we drove back to her place. "I think it's his sick way of ... I don't know, setting things right with you." I couldn't bring myself to say Danny's name. It was bad enough just thinking it. 

She sighed, and I knew she was thinking the same thing. "I know, I know. Emily was insinuating things, too." 

"We probably shouldn't," I observed quietly, sneaking a glance at her. 

The streetlights traced strange designs on her face in the darkness. "No, no, we probably shouldn't." 

"I mean, we're only supposed to have known each other for a little while...." 

"And I don't do things like that. Usually." I pulled the car up to the curb and shifted into park. 

"Neither do I. Not usually." 

Awkward silence, and then she suddenly got out of the car and hurried up the walkway, wrapping her shawl tightly around her shoulders. Her bag was still on the floor on the passenger's side, and just as I got out of the car to give it to her, she stumbled and fell. 

"God damn it," she said quietly, sprawled on the sidewalk, her shoulders shaking slightly. I hurried to her, watching as she tried to pull a heel from a crack in the sidewalk. "God damn it!" 

"Here, here," I soothed, moving her hands away from her feet. I carefully pulled her foot from the shoe and wrapped my hands around her ankle. "You're okay." 

She breathed out a heavy sigh and leaned against me. "Fucking shoe...." 

I laughed, wrenching the shoe out of the sidewalk and handing it to her. "You know, of all people, I'd think you'd be the least likely to do this." 

"I seem to be doing all sorts of unlikely things lately," she said, her voice slightly muffled against the fabric of my jacket. 

"Come on, let me help you...." I helped her stand, but she grimaced when she tried to put weight on the ankle. 

"This is typical," she muttered, leaning on me. She winced and drew in a sharp breath when she stepped forward. 

"Oh, forget it," I sighed, turning and lifting her into my arms, supporting her with one arm around her back and the other under her knees. 

She looked at me with surprise written all over her face, then wordlessly looped her arms around my neck and rested her chin on my shoulder. "Thank you," she said quietly. Her hair brushed against my cheek as we got to the door. 

"You're welcome," I replied, shifting her slightly in my hold so that she could unlock the door. She pushed it open and we stepped inside, stumbling a little to the couch. 

I set her down carefully and started to step back, thinking of getting some ice for her ankle. But she didn't release her arms from my neck; instead, she pulled me closer and brushed her lips against my jaw. I felt my heart start to race as I sat down beside her on the couch. She wrapped a hand around the back of my neck, and I moved my mouth to hers, her lips fitting naturally with mine. 

The kiss was different from the one we'd shared in Germany. Our lips moved languidly; she bit lightly at my lower lip and opened her mouth to mine, deepening the kiss, intensifying it. I moved to wrap my arms around her, and she broke away just long enough to sit up and move closer. She made a small sound deep in her throat as our lips met again. 

"We're not on a mission," I said softly as we broke apart. Her cheek rested against mine. 

"No, we're not," she said softly. 

"Are you sure about ... about this?" 

"No," she replied, exhaling slowly. "I'm not sure about anything." 

She turned her face back to mine, and our mouths met in a slow kiss that deepened quickly. Our tongues tangled, and her hands smoothed down the front of my shirt. Her fingers toyed with the lapels of my jacket. 

Just as I grew confident enough to lean forward, pressing her back against the pillows of the couch, a door slammed, and a quick "Oh!" echoed across the room. We broke apart rapidly. 

Francie scurried by, a hand shielding her eyes. "Sorry ... sorry ... not here...." 

Sydney shook her head, sighing and giving me a weak smile. I nodded, standing and readjusting my suit jacket. "I'd better...." 

"Yeah, yeah," she agreed, touching her flushed cheeks lightly. "I'll see you at work tomorrow morning." 

"Right. Hey, get some ice for your ankle." 

She nodded. "I will. Thanks for going with me." 

"No problem." I headed toward the door, and she twisted on the couch to smile at me. "Good night." 

"Night, Vaughn." 

I shut the door and drove home with a stupid grin on my face.   
  
**End Chapter Ten**


End file.
